


The Hungry And The Hunted

by octaviadblake (kateargen)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Eventual Happy Ending, Marijuana, Minor Bellamy Blake/Echo, Minor Finn Collins/Clarke Griffin, Multi, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, like a copious amount of cigarettes, this is just the slowest burn possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateargen/pseuds/octaviadblake
Summary: Murphy nudges Bellamy with his elbow and clears his throat, making a show of it. “So,” he says, all puffed-up and he turns to address the singer, to addressClarke, who ishere. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” He offers his hand and she looks down at it, narrows her eyes, and decidedly does not shake it.“No, we haven’t.” Her voice is even more hypnotizing when it’s not filtered through a microphone.“I’m Murphy,” he says, still sounding like an utter degenerate.She rolls her eyes. “I’m aware.” She fixes her eyes on Bellamy and he feels all the air rush out of his lungs. Fuck, hereyes. “And you’re Bellamy.” The way she says his name, like she really couldn't care less about him or his fame...it's intoxicating.Bellamy Blake and his band, Badlands, are on the verge of becoming music legends when they kick off their sold-out headlining tour in the summer of 1985. It's the era of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll, but with the band falling apart, Bellamy finds himself desperate for an escape from the limelight.Clarke Griffin certainly isn’t the distraction he was expecting...but the rock star life never really seems to go as planned.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 33
Kudos: 115





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> welp. i was rereading [throam](https://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/55360.html) and this happened...
> 
> special thanks to [cass](https://detectivebellamyblake.tumblr.com/), [shae](https://shaeheda.tumblr.com/), and [ali](https://lameblake.tumblr.com/) for giving me tons of editing help, to [katie](https://bellarkatie.tumblr.com/) for being my biggest fan throughout this whole process, and to my mother for being my resident 80s expert.
> 
> catch me on tumblr [here](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com).
> 
> I don't own the 100. Don't crosspost this anywhere. All that standard disclaimer stuff. 
> 
> Tags will be updated as we go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the 100. Don't crosspost this anywhere. All that standard disclaimer stuff. 
> 
> Tags will be updated as we go!

It’s a nice day in January, and that fact, in itself, feels like an oxymoron. It should really be snowing, he thinks, considering his foul mood, but if there’s anything he’s learned it’s that the weather doesn’t care how he feels. Sunny at funerals, rainy during first kisses, a heat wave when he’s burning cold, a snowstorm when he’s madly in love. 

The weather’s a fickle thing and it doesn’t care about his personal life. 

So instead of hiding behind the clouds, the sun is shining, and he’s standing on a street corner, with a Yankees cap that he bought at a bodega pulled down over his face, a big pair of shades blocking the rest, hunching in on himself and praying no one recognizes him. This is what it’s like being Bellamy Blake—hiding in plain sight and regretting every choice that’s ever led him here.

New York is nice this time of year, in the sense that most people with a shred of common sense are huddled down indoors where it’s warm and he can walk freely down the streets without fear of being recognized. 

He hears a gasp from somewhere to his right. Well, it was nice while it lasted. 

He looks down at the address hastily scrawled across his palm and starts walking, luckily in the opposite direction of the group of pre-teens who managed to recognize him despite his (admittedly poor) disguise. His destination is only three blocks from where the subway let out, but it doesn’t feel far enough. He sees a bar up ahead and he’s tempted to stop in, but he can’t. She wouldn’t appreciate him being drunk. Not when it’s been two years since he last saw her. Not after how it ended between them. Not after…not after everything.

Bellamy does, however, stop in at a drugstore for a pack of cigarettes. He may have gained a bit of self-control, but he’s no saint. He hopes she’ll understand.

He lights up as soon as he’s back on the street and adjusts his hat, anxiously looking up and down the street. The fans haven’t followed him and he’s blissfully alone once again.

He takes a sharp inhale of brisk air tinged with tobacco. He hasn’t seen her in two years and he’s still not ready for this. He might never be. He left her behind when she needed him the most. Not that she didn’t do her fair share of leaving, but...if this is gonna work, he needs to put the blame behind him. God, he’s not ready to leave it behind. He has to be. He’s not. But he’s here. He’s got one shot at this. 

Throwing his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, he pulls out another, lighting it up, and starts walking the final block to her building. Every step he takes steals the air from him further. Maybe that’s the smoke he’s inhaling, but it feels more like nerves. If he can’t even be honest with himself, what’s the point of any of this? 

He finds himself staring up at the building he’s looking for. At her building. He stubs his cigarette out with the tip of his boot. She’s in there, and he’s out here. They’ve spent so long separated by years and lovers and timing and physical distance and now here he is, the five steps up to the building’s entrance and seven stories up to her floor standing between them and not much else. He’s not ready for this. He looks down and fiddles with his lighter. He should light up again, take some more time. It’s been two years, what’s two more?

An elderly woman walks out and he knows this is his shot. He can’t hesitate or he may never work up the nerve again. He runs up to hold the door for the woman and she smiles, thanking him, oh so sincerely, none the wiser that he has ulterior motives. He gives her his most saccharine grin and tells her it’s no problem, ma’am, have a lovely day. 

He manages to wait until she’s walked down three steps before he slips inside and he’s standing at the elevator—a building with an elevator, look how well she’s done for herself—and working up the nerve to hit the button to head up. He lights another cigarette and calls the lift. He needs this strength, flimsy as it may be.

The elevator moves slowly, just slow enough to make him uncomfortable. He counts the seconds as the lift brings him up to the seventh floor, puffing lazily at his cigarette. Lately, they’ve started saying that cigarettes are bad for you, but no one’s paying much attention. Bellamy certainly doesn’t care. Especially not in times like this, when the nicotine is the only thing keeping him sane.

He hits her floor before he’s ready. He’s almost tempted to head all the way up to the roof and back down, riding the elevator through all its stops until he’s finally ready to face her. But knowing him, he’ll never truly be _ready_. Stepping forward, he looks down at his hand again. Apartment 703. She’s so close, just two doors down on the left. He’s so not ready for this.

He stubs his smoke out on the wall, ruining the wallpaper in the process, and stuffs the butt in his pocket for lack of a better option. He tucks his sunglasses in his shirt collar and pulls his hat off, nervously running a hand through his hair. This is it. It’s been almost two years and two months since he last saw her. Just shy of 800 days. So close. So far.

There’s no point in standing around in her hallway. He takes a deep breath. Now or never.

Bellamy stares down at his feet as he knocks on her door, unable to watch as his hand acts. Maybe if he doesn’t look, he can separate himself from the act of knocking. What if she slams the door in his face? What if she’s not even home?

His worries are for nothing. He hears some knocking around inside and the door is opening before he can gather his bearings. It’s happening, no backing out now. 

The welcoming smile she’d prepared falls off her face as soon as she processes the broken man standing on her doorstep. He clears his throat. 

“Hi, Clarke.”

The set of her jaw tightens further at his words. He deserves this cold welcome, he knows. “Been a while,” he adds.

“Yeah,” she says, sounding for all the world like she has no intention of saying anything more. 

He looks down at his feet and coughs awkwardly. “You look good,” he tells her, and it’s true. Her hair is shorter than he’s ever seen it, streaks of pink throughout and heavily coating the tips. She’s wearing a light blue top and flannel shorts, clearly having just rolled out of bed. Her blue eyes look tired, but her skin is radiant, no hint of eye bags or frown lines. She looks good, healthy. The antithesis of him, with his greasy hair and bloodshot eyes, the same wrinkled shirt he’s been wearing for almost a week now, the old, ratty jeans that weren’t ripped when he first bought them. He looks like he’s hungry and hunted and he knows it.

She cocks an eyebrow, but before she can attempt to return the sentiment—she’d be lying if she did—he continues, barrelling on, “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d say hi. Can I come in?”

He pushes into her apartment before she can deny him entry and he looks around. Her home is lovely: flowers, art, a grand piano, guitars on the wall. He wishes she’d offer him a drink. It’s eleven in the morning, far too early for someone like her to start pumping alcohol into their system. If only.

After looking around, he turns to find her standing by the still-open door. He’s the last person she expected to see this morning and he knows it. 

Finally, she seems to find her words. She looks to the ceiling as if the script were printed there. “What are you doing here, Bellamy?” 

He stands in the middle of this New York apartment, at a loss of what to do with his hands. “I…” There’s no excuse he could give which would adequately explain his presence, not with the way things ended. “I was in town.” 

It’s the reason he gave her just seconds before and it’s not nearly enough, not when he knows he’s only here because of her, because she has a show tonight, because he wants to know how she’s been, because he...misses her. 

She closes the door and crosses to the bar cart. Apparently he guessed wrong, or maybe it’s just that the years have changed her. She pours a glass of whiskey for him and some clear liquor for herself. Gin, maybe. “Drink?” she offers. He nods and pulls out his pack. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

“As long as I can have one, too,” she says with a sardonic grin. He lights up and hands the smoke to her before lighting one for himself. She pulls on her drink and takes a couple long drags before fixing him with a look, the same sort of intensity she always gave him back in the day, that look that said she could see straight down into his soul in a way no one else ever had. “You look like shit.”

He laughs. At least she’s not lying to him. “Feel like it, these days.” He pulls on his cigarette before meeting her eyes. “I’ve got a ticket to the show tonight.”

She laughs like she’s surprised. “You could’ve just asked.” He blows out smoke towards the window, unable to meet her eyes. He hears her huff out a breath behind him. “Right. You haven’t changed at all, have you?”

Bellamy wishes he could be offended, but she’s right. She’s got him figured out, just like always. He couldn’t have called for a ticket or a backstage pass. He’s much too proud for that, always has been. 

Clarke knocks back the rest of her drink and fixes her eyes on him. He can see her gaze out of the corner of his eye, but he’s too chicken to look back. “It’s a sold out show. Surprised you could make it.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, I was in town.”

She scoffs loudly and it’s enough to make him look up. She’s rolling her eyes and pouring herself another glass. “It’s been two years, Bellamy. What are you really doing here?” She takes a long sip before she finally looks up again, and he feels it. He’s transported back in time to all the pain and confusion, to the hurt and the loss and the sorrow and the love. He’s twenty five again and captivated by this blonde bombshell who is so above it all, he’s twenty seven again and utterly enchanted by this beautiful girl who doesn’t give a damn, he’s here now and he’s twenty nine and she’s staring him down and he’s still so in love with her that he aches with it. It’s too much.

Knocking back his drink and clearing his throat, he finds the words locked somewhere deep inside himself. “Is it not enough that I missed you?”

She laughs. Of course she does. He never was much for emotion. It’s no surprise she doesn’t take him seriously now, when it’s too late for it to mean anything. “You shouldn’t have come here.” And he knows that, doesn’t he? Of course he knows. Obviously, he shouldn’t have come. Here, to her home. Here, where she’s made a life that doesn’t include him. 

He goes to say something, anything, but she’s already talking over him. “Look, I need to start getting ready. I’ll...I’ll see you tonight, I guess.” And he nods like it should be so easy. Like he can just show up and venue security will let him in (of course they will, he’s Bellamy fucking Blake, any bouncer worth their salt would let him in anywhere, there isn’t a velvet rope in the world that could keep him out) and they can catch up like they’re just two people, two once-friends who go way back, who can spend their evening trading old fables of tours once lived, as if that’s all this ever was. As if there was never anything more.

He takes in the way she can’t meet his eyes anymore. He takes in the way his hands are shaking. “Right, yeah. I’ll see you later. Break a leg.” And he’s crossing to the door. This is it. Maybe he won’t even make it tonight, maybe there will be traffic or some big party at the new big club downtown. Maybe he’ll pull the same old vanishing act he used to. Maybe. 

She catches his arm and her voice doesn’t shake when she speaks. “Bellamy…” He stares at her hand, not quite skin-on-skin because the fabric of his jacket is in the way. He’s never hated a piece of clothing so much. She seems to flounder for a minute. When he finally manages to drag his eyes to her face, she’s not looking at him. Her hand drops. She clears her throat. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says. Somehow, it gives him all the warmth he needs to brave the January air once more.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Yeah, I’ll see you tonight.” He takes a step back. He turns away.

He walks out of her apartment and lights up a smoke. He’ll see her tonight. Yeah. He’ll see her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp. i was rereading [throam](https://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/55360.html) and this happened...
> 
> chapter one is already written and should be up in a week or so!
> 
> special thanks to [cass](https://detectivebellamyblake.tumblr.com/), [shae](https://shaeheda.tumblr.com/), and [ali](https://lameblake.tumblr.com/) for giving me tons of editing help, to [katie](https://bellarkatie.tumblr.com/) for being my biggest fan throughout this whole process, and to my mother for being my resident 80s expert.
> 
> catch me on tumblr [here](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter One: the same old played out scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for marijuana use, blatant alcoholism, hard drug mention. 
> 
> bellamy's a bit of an ass and he's such a joy to write.

The crowd’s still cheering after they finally leave the stage, two encores later. 

For once, he made it through a show mostly sober, only throwing back drinks after their main set, before the first encore. It’s not that he’s past the stage fright, but sometimes it’s nice to really experience it all. 

He hands off his guitar to a roadie, some Asian kid with floppy hair, and he resolutely ignores the way his hands are shaking. He’s fine, really, but he still lights up a spliff almost immediately. The guys are smiling and his manager’s giving a thumb’s up, but he’s not ready to process this yet. He needs a minute to come down from the jitters. He needs some bud to calm him down.

Sure, it’s a heady feeling, playing to a sold-out stadium of fourteen thousand people, but he’s still not sure how he feels about it. Some days, it’s everything he ever wanted. Other days, the thought of running out on that stage fills him with dread and he feels like he’s holding up the sky, burdened like Atlas and just as lonely.

Today’s a good day, mostly. 

The show tonight was insane. The energy of the audience had given him a rush of this overwhelming sense of ecstasy and gut-wrenching dread. Bellamy hasn’t had a show like this since the Philly show back in late ‘81 when the band was opening for AC/DC. This isn’t like that at all. They’re headlining now, and all the kids know their songs, thousands of people across every major US city, all screaming his words. 

He’s still riding the high of a successful show, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he takes a drag of the spliff he’s been nursing the past couple minutes. Back in the day, he’d be back there, clearing their gear off the stage and loading it into the trailer. He doesn’t have to worry about that these days. Stars don’t worry about the tech. 

“Good show tonight, Bellamy!” He looks up to see one of their roadies rolling a drum case out to the trailer. He thinks the kid’s name is Jason, maybe. Jared? Jasper? Something with a J. He flashes him a wide grin and salutes him in thanks. That should be enough to keep the kid happy for the next couple weeks or so.

As soon as the kid rounds the corner, he lets the smile fall off his face. He does his best to be nice to the roadies, but it’s hard when they’re also fans. It’s only the third show of the tour, though, and this new group of kids will become disillusioned with him and the rest of the band soon enough. He inhales once more before stubbing out the spliff on the bottom of his boot. He carefully tucks it back into his pack of smokes where it blends in perfectly with his cigarettes and he lets the acrid taste of grass and tobacco roll off his lips.

He pushes off the wall and starts off in search of some entertainment, something to distract him from these cloying thoughts that threaten to drown him. The band has been his whole life for so long now, but things get rougher every day and he just can’t think about this right now. He needs a drink. 

Voices ring out from the green room and he rolls his eyes. It’s his bandmates, yelling about something or other, _again_. When aren’t they fighting these days? Christ, it’s only the third day of tour. 

He barges in just as Murphy slams his fist into the wall. “Hey, whoa!” he yells, quickly taking in the situation. Murphy’s got his back turned, but Bellamy can see the hard line of his shoulders shaking with barely contained anger. Connor looks like he’s two seconds away from breaking a chair over Murphy’s head. Meanwhile, Miller’s sitting on the couch, arms crossed, but seemingly staying out of it. Chuck, their manager, is rubbing his temples. “What’s going on?” Bellamy asks.

Chuck looks up and catches sight of Bellamy. He must notice his red eyes and drooping eyelids because he just rolls his eyes and goes back to ignoring everyone. Connor, though, is more than willing to fill him in. “What’s going _on_, is this fucking _cockroach_ stole my grass!”

“Why would I need to steal from you, dumbass?” Murphy yells, only turning his head slightly, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Connor scoffs. “How about because you have no integrity? God, you no-talent dick.”

That gets Murphy to turn around. “At least I can play my instrument! Tell me, do you even know what a G chord is?”

“I’m not the one who screwed up tonight’s show.”

“Oh, fuck you. I missed _one_ transition!”

“Guys!” Bellamy yells. He pulls out a joint and hands it to Connor. “It’s just pot, get over yourselves.” Turning to Murphy, “Come on, man. Let’s go for a walk.”

Murphy throws one last glare at Connor, but he huffs and stalks out of the green room. Bellamy turns to Miller and raises an eyebrow in question, cocking his head towards the door. Miller looks between Connor and Bellamy and shakes his head slightly. So their drummer will keep their guitarist happy. Works for him.

Bellamy follows Murphy and finds him angrily smoking in the hallway. When Bellamy shows his face, Murphy rolls his eyes and stalks away. Bellamy lights up too and follows behind. 

He wishes he could say this was the first time things had blown up like this, but the band’s been having problems ever since they made it big. Fame changes people, he knows this, he’s heard the horror stories about The Eagles, Motley Crue...hell, Van Halen are known for their dysfunction. But he always swore he’d never be like them. His band was supposed to be a group of friends, making music because it’s what they loved doing. It was never supposed to be about the money or the girls or the drugs or the fame.

But that was before the money and the girls and the drugs and the fame.

Nowadays, Murphy and Connor are constantly at each other’s throats, Miller barely meets Bellamy’s eyes anymore, and Bellamy feels more alone than ever. According to the critics, their new album reflects that fact. It seems Badlands’ sound has gotten “darker,” but also “more authentic.” That’s good. At least they haven’t sold out. 

Oh, who is he kidding? They sold out the second they signed their contracts with the label. They sold their souls for a taste of the big time, and look at where it’s gotten them. Four once-friends constantly trapped in tour buses and green rooms, stuck on a stage with a thousand lights, playing sold-out stadiums, hating each other just a little bit more each day. Looks like they’re finally living “the dream.” If only someone had told him “the dream” was more like a nightmare. 

He follows Murphy out to the street and the cool air of Baltimore in April. Rubbing his hands together for warmth, he finds himself wishing he’d grabbed gloves or something. He’s a Florida boy, not meant for persistent cold this far into spring. He drags on his cigarette and pulls it out of his mouth. It’s not having the desired effect and he glares down at it, personally offended by the lack of relief. He throws it to the ground and jogs a bit to catch up. Murphy looks at him, not breaking stride. “If you’re gonna try to convince me to apologize to Connor, you can just give up right now.” 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Connor’s a dick.” Murphy shoots him a smirk and Bellamy feels the pressure on his chest lighten just a bit. He’s found an ally for the night. Sure, tomorrow Murphy’ll have something to bitch at him about, but for now, they’re friends. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. “So where we headed?” 

Murphy shrugs. “Gotta be a bar around here somewhere, right?” Can’t argue with that. 

He lets his bassist lead the way. If he can trust anyone to find the best spot for booze, it’s Murphy. 

They end up at some dive bar that promises live music. Feels like it wasn’t that long ago they were setting up in places like this, playing for beer and pocket change. Things were easier then. Sometimes he misses those days, when it was just the four of them and a van, searching for something bigger than themselves. They’ve finally found that something. Where has it gotten them? 

Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air and they make their way through the small crowd of people, heading to the bar to buy a bottle of whiskey to split. Good ole’ Johnnie Walker, can’t go wrong. As they’re waiting, Bellamy hears the current band thank the crowd and start breaking down their tech. Simpler times.

He’s drumming his fingers impatiently on the bar, waiting for the bartender to grab their bottle. “Oh my god.” He looks up. The bartender’s standing there, two glasses and a bottle in hand, eyes wide and mouth agape. Well, shit. “You’re Bellamy Blake.” His gaze shifts as he sets their booze down and he notices who Bellamy’s there with. He flounders. “And you’re...you’re John Murphy! Holy shit!” 

Bellamy gives him a tight smile and nods. “Yeah, that’s us,” he says before Murphy can let the attention go to his head. He throws a couple of bills down on the bar. “Thanks, man.” He grabs their bottle and makes his way to a table in the back corner, far from prying eyes. 

“You know,” Murphy says, annoyed, “The whole point of fame is getting recognized. You could at least _try_ to be nice.” 

Bellamy scoffs as he pulls out his half-smoked spliff from earlier. “Thought it was about selling records.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “No one buys records anymore, man.” Right. All about cassette these days. 

“Maybe _you_ don’t. But tape doesn’t preserve the music quality. Any professional will tell you, vinyl’s the way to go.” 

They’ve had this conversation a million times, so Murphy doesn’t even bother responding. He pours them each a glass of whiskey and reaches over the table for Bellamy’s smoke. “Don’t be greedy,” he says with a grin, and now it’s Bellamy’s turn to roll his eyes, but he hands over the joint, letting Murphy smoke his fill. He’d rather be drinking anyway.

The two of them sit and drink and smoke in silence for a bit. There was a time they wouldn’t have been able to shut up, but the words don’t flow anymore. So they’ve got the star power, the fame, they’ve got every pill and powder they could ever ask for, every girl they could think to want. So what? They don’t have each other. Not anymore.

Trading friendship for fame was never the plan, but at least they’re getting something out of this. The liquor’s flowing, the records are selling, and they’re living large. At least they have that. 

He hears a bit of mic feedback but ignores it. Just another shitty band in another shitty dive bar in another shitty town in another shitty state. Same old shit, different day. He sighs into his glass and downs the rest of it, barely wincing at the burn. He’s not sure if he should be proud or horrified that he’s gotten used to it. 

Just as he’s pouring himself another couple fingers of whiskey, he hears a raspy voice over the loudspeaker, melodic and feminine, but smokey and dark all at once. “How’s it goin’ tonight, folks?”

He turns in his seat to check out the act that’s just taken the stage. It’s a group of women, all beautiful, each of them dressed in all black but dripping in fake gems—dangling earrings, layered necklaces and bangles, a ring for every finger. They twinkle like starlight up there on that too-small stage, and Bellamy is transfixed. 

There’s no real fanfare as they start their set, but they all come alive with the music. The blonde on the keyboard looks sweet, lost as she is with a small, private smile, like she shares a secret with the music. The olive-skinned brunette on bass looks harsh, but there’s a focused set to her mouth that makes her captivating. Their drummer’s hair is woven into several braids, and she’s the only one whose eyes aren’t ringed with a thick layer of eyeliner. She somehow looks fiercer for it.

The singer, though. The body of the guitar she’s playing is bedazzled, which should look cheesy, but instead just adds to the effect. Her eyes are closed as she croons into the mic and her voice is hypnotizing. She’s singing about loss and heartache, but the melody, the music behind it, is upbeat and lighthearted. It’s pop at heart, even if her words mirror the rebellion and the anger and the aching of punk rock. He’s never heard anything like it.

The singer pulls away from the mic and launches into an intense guitar solo that reminds him of riffs he’s written. It’s possible they were inspired by his band. Seems like every new artist these days is crediting them as a muse.

As she plays, her tongue pokes out between her lips and her brow furrows in concentration. He’s never seen someone get so lost in the music. She makes her way to the bassist and the two of them stand back to back, strumming their instruments and leaning their heads on each other’s shoulders. They launch into the chorus again together, sharing the bassist’s mic. The words come out coated with the sound of the smiles they’re wearing, morphing the vowels into something wider, something brighter. He finds himself matching their grins as he nods his head along to the beat.

The music hits him with its authenticity, with how raw it is, and it cuts to his core, awakening something inside him that’s laid dormant for longer than he realized. He didn’t notice the absence of this spark until it showed its face again. Now he wonders how he could ever have lost it. His foot’s started tapping without his permission and he’s transfixed. Who knew he still had it in him? Who fucking knew?

“Bell,” Murphy snaps, sounding like he’s repeated it a few times and finally Bellamy turns, facing him again. “Want some?” he asks, offering Bellamy’s joint. Of course he wants some, it’s his fucking weed. 

Grabbing the spliff, he nods towards the stage. “They’re pretty good.” Murphy looks up like he’s just considering the band for the first time.

He shrugs. “Not bad.” He purses his lips. “All chicks, though. That’s weird.” Bellamy nods an agreement. Strange, but not unheard of. “Bassist’s kinda cute.”

Bellamy laughs. Trust Murphy to be on the lookout for a hook-up. He’s got his pick of groupies, but he’s still sizing up chicks that clearly have better things to do than idolize top 40 rock stars. “The singer’s more up my alley,” he says, fixing his gaze back on the blonde at the front. 

God, she positively oozes sex appeal, with her skin-tight black jeans and leather jacket, embellished with soda tabs on the back. Her dangling earrings keep catching the light, and if she turns just so, and he can see the subtle twinkle of a nose ring, promising an edge of danger to her. Maybe he’s not that much better than Murphy after all, lusting after this beautiful girl in this shitty bar. 

“No way, man,” Murphy says with a cocky grin. “That girl is one hundred percent unavailable.”

Bellamy whips his head around, fixing Murphy with a stern look. “What makes you say that?”

Murphy laughs. “Come on, man. Girl like that? Dark eyeliner, hair in her face, those boots? She’s either taken or a lesbian.” Bellamy turns to size her up again. He’s right, the asshole. She looks closed off, and it doesn’t help that she’s just launching into a nice, slow, love song, all about how she wants to spend the rest of her life with this asshole, how she couldn’t ask for anything better.

And how could Bellamy compete with that? He’s good for a quick fuck and not much else. Sure, there are a couple groupies around the country that he’d roll around with again, but he’s not much in the way of a boyfriend. Hell, just ask Gina. After their third big tour, she’d found out about his multiple...indiscretions, and she’d walked away without looking back. Smart girl. 

He stares at the singer, sizing her up. There’s something about the way she holds herself up on that stage, like she was born there. He’s never been that confident in front of a crowd, no matter how many times he’s done it. His palms always sweat and he always stares at the monitors instead of the audience. This girl has none of his nervous energy, her lyrics don’t scream about sex and drugs and skeletons in her closet, she winks at the small crowd and laughs into the mic and puts on a show like she’s been doing this for decades.

A girl like that is probably far too smart to fall into bed with a fuck up like him. 

He looks back to his whiskey and resolutely ignores the girls attempting to captivate their uninterested little crowd. He downs his drink and pours himself another, the alcohol giving him a pleasant, fuzzy feeling, finally muffling the stress of tour life. Fuck, it’s only day three, and he’s already drowning his sorrows. 

“Um, excuse me,” a timid voice says and Bellamy looks up to see a pretty little thing, dark hair pulled half up, a brand new tour shirt over her clothes, clearly having just come from the show. “Oh my god, it _is_ you,” she breathes, eyes going wide. Great. Just what he needs. 

She thrusts a napkin and a pen in his face, hands shaking. “Could you, uh, could you sign this for me?” He takes the pen and grips it a bit too hard.

“Who should I make it out to?”

She stammers for a moment, looking nervously between him and Murphy. “Um. Fox.” She sounds unsure and there’s no way that’s her real name, but he scrawls it across the napkin anyway. _To Fox—stay foxy. Bellamy Blake._ He slides the napkin over to Murphy who chuckles when he sees what Bellamy’s written. He scribbles out his own little inscription with the autograph he used to practice in math class, notebooks full of the manufactured signature he’d one day wind up scribbling on records and concert tickets and bar napkins and girls’ tits. Bellamy wishes he could say he didn’t do the same thing way back when, but he’s just as guilty of it. Looking back, they didn’t need to spend so long practicing their signatures, not when they’ve signed their names a thousand million times these past five years. 

The girl, Fox, looks ready to pass out and he pointedly turns away from her to face Murphy, silently waving her off. He hates this part, dealing with fans. They only like the idea of him, they don’t actually give a shit about who he is. These naive, wide-eyed girls, all thinking they’ve got him figured out because they’ve listened to every album on repeat and analyzed every lyric. 

He’s never met anyone who actually knew what he was saying.

Murphy flashes Fox a charming grin and then follows his lead, purposely ignoring her until she takes the hint, walking away with shoulders slumped. They’ve learned to spot the difference between groupies and innocent fans. They had no business tangling with that girl, just a kid who probably made it in with a fake ID. No, that would just be asking for trouble. They don’t need another Bowie or Tyler in their group, with their “baby groupies.” Those guys think they can get away with murder (they’re probably right). But even if they never face consequences for it, Badlands doesn’t need that kind of bad press. Not when they’re just hitting the height of their fame.

Bellamy turns back to the girls on stage. Those are the sort of girls they should be getting tangled up with. Those are some girls with a sense of independence. Those girls seem smart, interesting, maybe a bit world-weary. Those girls have something to _say._

He passes Murphy the rest of the spliff. The alcohol is giving him enough of a buzz, he doesn’t need more pot on top of it. The girls are just wrapping up, and he’s entranced by the singer once again as she thanks the indifferent crowd. “You guys have been amazing.” Lie. “We’ve been The Galaxy Girls. See y’all next Wednesday.” 

And with that, they’re walking off stage, instruments in hand. The keyboard player helps the drummer clear her kit, but Bellamy doesn’t care about those two. “Murph, we gotta go say hi,” he says, and Murphy raises an eyebrow.

“Really? A small-town bar band?” 

Bellamy gets it, really. They’re so far past this stage in their careers that these girls feel almost laughably insignificant. But something about that singer.

These girls have got a spark of something, and Bellamy will be damned if leaves this crap bar without making damn sure they know how talented they are. And if he manages to get the singer alone for a few minutes, well, that’s just a bonus. 

He’s standing up and heading towards the side door before he can even check if Murphy’s following him. He knows he is; this is what they are, the blind leading the blind. A bouncer moves as if to stop them before he recognizes them. He wisely steps aside. Ah, the perks of being a rock star. 

He heads backstage without a plan. What’s he gonna say to her? Not that it really matters, she’ll probably fall all over herself, overjoyed that one of the biggest rock stars of their generation caught their set. 

He takes in a shaky breath and wipes his hands on his jeans. Christ, what is wrong with him?

He lights a cigarette and his hands absolutely are not shaking, he swears, and he tousles his hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. His hair never lies flat, so why does he even bother? 

Murphy gives him a knowing look, but Bellamy absolutely refuses to give him the benefit of a reaction. He just wants to meet a talented band, pay his respects. That’s all this is. 

They round the corner and there’s just a wide hallway behind the stage, no green room in sight. The fact this bar has any sort of back room means it’s already better than the crap bars they used to play at. The girls are still sharing excited grins, energies running high after their set, small as it was. Badlands used to have that kind of enthusiasm. That camaraderie forged in the fires of living off dirt pay in studio apartments or crashing on couches, busking downtown for spare change, begging for someone to notice them. These girls haven’t been tainted by the publicity and the fame. After seeing them perform, he doubts this innocence will last much longer.

He and Murphy stand around on the outskirts of their little afterparty, smoking their cigarettes. Murphy remembered to grab the bottle so Bellamy snags it from him and takes a long swig. It’s the bassist who notices them first.

“Holy fuck,” she says, and damn, the mouth on that girl. Murphy sure knows how to pick ‘em.

The other girls turn to look at them, a few others loitering around them. Friends and family, most likely. Maybe a manager if they’re smart.

“Oh my god,” the keyboard player says, eyes widening. “You’re…”

Bellamy smirks. Normally he hates this part, but in moments like this? Well, sometimes it’s nice to be recognized. “Bellamy Blake,” he says, handing the bottle back off to Murphy and crossing over to her, offering his hand. 

She takes it almost absentmindedly, like she can’t believe this is really happening. “Um. I’m, uh. I’m Harper,” she stammers. He almost wants to laugh.

“Nice to meet you, Harper,” he says. “Great show tonight.”

“Wow, thank you, Mr. Blake, thank you so much, that means so much to me, oh my god, you guys are, like, my everything, wow, thank you so much.” She hardly takes a second to breathe and she’s still gripping his hand a bit too tight. 

He carefully extricates himself from her hold. “Please, just call me Bellamy,” he says, giving her his most dazzling grin, the one he reserves for interviews and groupies. She’s appropriately dazzled. Good. “This is Murphy,” he adds, and shifts slightly to bring his friend into the conversation.

“How’s it goin’, sweetheart?” Bellamy suppresses an eye roll. 

“Good, so good,” Harper says. The bassist and drummer have made their way over to check out the stars hanging around their shitty little venue, and it’s obvious they’re starstruck by him also, though they seem to be keeping their reactions in check much better than Harper. “This is, um,” Harper starts, a blush rising on her cheeks, “This is Raven and Zoe.” 

“It’s Monroe,” the drummer says, correcting Harper’s introduction. Bellamy can roll with that. 

Before he can add anything else, Murphy chimes in, extending the bottle towards Raven, the bassist. “Care for a drink?” 

She raises an eyebrow, but accepts the offering and takes a long shot off the bottle. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, no further reaction. Interesting. Whiskey’s not exactly a woman’s drink, and she’s slugging it back like a champ. This one could be fun.

He looks around curiously, noting that the singer is nowhere to be found. “Hey,” he says to Raven, trying for nonchalance. “Where’s, uh...where’s your singer? Wanted to tip my hat to her.” 

Raven looks around, momentarily confused. “Hmm. I don’t see her.” She turns to Monroe. “Did you see where Clarke went?”

Clarke.

The singer’s name is Clarke.

Monroe looks around, confused, like the singer’s absence is a surprise to her. “Must’ve run off with Finn,” she says with a shrug. _Finn_. The name burns. He’s not used to being denied, and even this, her apparent relationship status, is a denial. She’s shrugging him off before he even gets a chance to throw his hat in the ring. He snatches the bottle out of Raven’s hand and takes a long swig. He tries not to look too bitter.

Murphy gives him a knowing look and asks the question he knows Bellamy’s dying to ask. “Who’s Finn?”

“Oh!” Harper says, finally chiming in again. “Finn is Clarke’s boyfriend! They’ve been together for months now, they’re so cute!” Raven shifts, suddenly looking uncomfortable. Again, interesting. 

“Rad,” Bellamy says, trying to play it off like he couldn’t care less. It’s hitting him hard, though. She should be here. “Well, you guys were choice.” Harper looks over the moon at his praise and Raven seems fairly shocked. Monroe’s the best at hiding her feelings, but Bellamy knows the praise is getting to her. He’s Bellamy fucking Blake and he just told these nobodies that their set was good. Of course she’s affected.

“Thank you, oh my god, thank you so much,” Harper says. Murphy nods along in agreement, reaching for the bottle. Bellamy takes another long pull before handing it off to him.

A severe looking woman who matches the band, all dolled up in all-black but minus the flashy jewelry, pops up over Monroe’s shoulder. “Can I help you?” she asks, voice stern.

He laughs. “Uh, no, I’m good.” He can hang out wherever he’d like, stuck up bitches like this be damned.

“Then you can leave my band the hell alone,” she says. 

He’s taken aback. “Your band?” he asks. Who the hell is this chick?

“Anya Forrester,” she tells him, offering her hand. She acts like she’s more important than him. It’s possible she doesn’t know who he is. Not likely, but possible. “I manage The Galaxy Girls. Now, can I help you?” she asks again, and Bellamy’s shocked at her persistence. 

Murphy steps in, knowing how Bellamy is when it comes to management. “We just wanted to pop in and say congrats on a wicked show.”

Anya glares at him, clearly unimpressed. “On behalf of my clients, thank you. If you need anything else, feel free to contact my agency,” she says, handing Bellamy her card. Of the two of them, he’s probably the less skeezy in her eyes. “Have a nice night.” She ushers the girls away from them, and it’s a smart move on her part. Keep the girls away from the drunken, drugged-up rock stars. She’s a good manager. Better than Chuck’s ever been, that’s for sure. 

Bellamy looks down at the business card in his hand and quickly pockets it. He looks up at the retreating figures of the girls as they head out into the alley behind the bar. He reaches for the whiskey, but when Murphy hands the bottle over, he sees it’s empty. Damn it. 

“Let’s get out of here,” he says to Murphy, stalking off the way they came.

He realizes his mistake as soon as they step back out into the bar. Some fan clearly made a call to a friend or a local radio station, because the bar is suddenly packed. Half the people crammed in here are wearing Badlands t-shirts, and the other half either don’t care or are trying to play it cool, like they don’t give a damn that half of a top 40 band is standing in their midst. Smart move on their part. He’d rather talk to the kids who couldn’t care less.

Murphy, of course, is soaking up the attention, calling out for someone to grab him another bottle, and he’s granted it quickly, before he has a chance to get impatient. Looks like they’re in for a long night here, letting their adoring fans worship them. Could be worse.

He thinks back to Clarke, going home with her perfect boyfriend who she writes songs about, who she sings to up on stage, like the music and the performance are the only things that matter. He thinks about Raven and the way she tensed up hearing the boyfriend’s name. He considers this small-town band and the problems already cropping up before they’ve even gotten off the ground. He reflects on his own band and how they’ve been spiraling out of control. Were _they_ that bad, way back when? If he’s being honest, they were probably worse.

He thinks about this wonderful, all-female, Baltimore band, playing their hearts out on Wednesday nights to a shit crowd in a shit bar and the issues they don’t even realize they have. He glances over at his bandmate, standing next to him, this guy who is one of his former friends, and they’re bombarded by fans begging them to sign their tapes and their shirts and their tickets. Bellamy and Murphy soak up the attention, slugging back shots of whiskey straight all the while. 

He pictures his other two band members, left behind at the venue with their manager, hashing out the same old arguments they’ve had a thousand times at this point. He looks out over this small sea of adoring fans and he smiles. Yeah, he thinks. Could be worse.

…

When he finally wakes up to the light breaking through the curtains of his hotel room the next day, he’s got a pounding headache and his mouth tastes like something crawled inside it and died. He blearily looks around and sees that he raided the mini-bar when he got back, empty little bottles strewn about the room along with his clothes. He turns his head and sees a girl fast asleep in bed next to him. Nice.

He lazily scratches his stomach and rolls over, slipping out of bed. He desperately needs a shower. Some aspirin, too, if he can scrounge some up. They’ve got another show in Baltimore tonight. Apparently one sold out stadium wasn’t enough, they have to do it all over again. Whatever, it’s better than the five nights in a row they’re gonna be playing in New York next month. He is _not_ looking forward to that.

The hot shower water is refreshing on his skin and the steam feels cleansing. He stands under the spray in silence. There was a time when he’d have sung in the shower, using the mini shampoo bottle as his microphone, but now that he’s made a living out of his music, the novelty’s worn off. The band used to just sit around and jam all the time, dicking around on their instruments, no real goal in mind. It’s been ages since they played just for fun. It’s been ages since he and the band did much of anything just for fun.

The water turns cold long before he’s ready to step out, but he shuts it off anyway. Time to face the day.

He wraps a towel around his waist and uses another to dry his hair. It hangs long in his eyes, curling around his jaw. He’s been considering growing his hair out long, match his image more to the other big rockers these days. Bellamy looks like he’d be more at home in the 60s. He thinks it suits him, though. Sets him apart from the crowd.

Stepping out into the room, he sees that the girl’s sitting up, sheets covering her bare breasts. She’s turned the television on and she looks up when he walks in. “Nina’s playing your video. She couldn’t shut up about you guys.” Bellamy looks to see she’s got MTV on and they’re indeed playing an older Badlands video, the first big hit off their second album. 

“I’ll never understand why people watch this shit,” he tells her. MTV is wrecking the music industry, in his opinion. Once upon a time, it was about musical integrity, about _talent._ Now it’s just about whichever pop star has flashier dance moves. Video really did kill the radio star.

Still, he has to be grateful for video. He knows that he’s hot as hell and that his bandmates aren’t half bad. No doubt that’s the main reason they took off as fast as they did. Well, that, and a couple strategic touring decisions made by the label. They toured with AC/DC and ZZ Top in their early days, supported The Cure for a few shows back in ‘83; the best was when they somehow managed to secure a slot opening for The Who for a few nights on their last tour in ‘82. 

But now, with Nina and the rest of the VJs playing Badlands videos once an hour, 24 hours a day, it’s stopped being about who they’re touring with or what their message is. Now it’s all about how they look and what they’re wearing, with their skin-tight jeans and leather jackets, how Murphy always plays shirtless, Miller with his biceps on full display in his homemade muscle tees, Connor always decked out in stupid bandanas. Bellamy still gets girls begging him to sign their cover issue of _Rolling Stone_ when some over-enthusiastic make-up artist came at them with eyeliner and too much hairspray. He hates that fucking picture.

The girl hums from behind him. “I don’t know. Nina’s got good taste. And Alan is totally sexy.” 

Bellamy laughs. “How does being sexy qualify someone to talk about music?”

She scoffs. “It’s not just about music. It’s about the videos! The dancing! The clothes!” So, everything he hates about the music industry today. That checks out. She catches his eye roll and plows onward, determined to make her point. “I’m telling you, twenty years from now, it’s gonna be nothing but MTV all the time.” 

“Barf.”

“Whatever.” She gets out of bed and starts pulling on clothes. Good riddance. 

There’s a pounding at his door and he hears his manager’s voice screaming through the wood. “Blake! Open the goddamn door!”

“Chill out, Pike,” he yells back, annoyed. He pulls on a pair of ratty jeans and checks that the chick has clothes on before pulling the door open. Chuck shoves his way in and gives the girl a dirty look. Rolling her eyes, she grabs her purse and stalks out. Bellamy calls after her, “Later days, sweetcheeks!”

He roots around the room in search of a bottle he didn’t finish off last night. Tucked inside his shoe, for some reason, he manages to find a mini bottle of tequila. That should do. 

He unscrews the cap and turns to Chuck, downing the liquor in two quick gulps. It burns when it goes down, but it eases the pressure of his headache a bit. “What do you want, man?”

Chuck looks unimpressed. “It’s half past two, Bellamy. Soundcheck is in thirty minutes and you didn’t show up for bus call. Put on a fucking shirt.” He spares a glance to the television and flicks it off before Nina Blackwood can launch into another long-winded music news segment. 

Bellamy throws him a mock salute and rifles around in his duffel for something passably clean. Most of his clothes are either stained or smelly or both. He needs to get laundry done. Maybe he can convince a roadie to do it. 

Finally he finds a sleeveless black shirt that he thinks he can get away with, especially considering later tonight he’s gonna be up on stage and sweating under the lights for two and a half hours anyway. If a teenaged Bellamy could see him now, he’d call himself a douche, but he’s showing off his arms and the half-sleeve tattoo adorning his shoulder. He looks like a rock star. It’s a good look on him.

He doesn’t bother to lace up his boots, just pulls them on along with a pair of shades, and he searches the room for his cigarettes. Chuck sighs and grabs them off the nightstand, holding them out to him. “Thanks,” he says.

“Sure thing. Let’s bounce.” 

Chuck leads him through the hotel and out back to where the bus is parked. There’s a couple fans loitering around and as soon as they spot him, they’re yelling out his name, thrusting posters and pens in his direction. He pulls out a smoke and lights up just for something to do with his hands. 

One particularly overeager fan manages to break past their security guy and grabs onto Bellamy’s arm. His eyes widen and he jumps back as if burnt, panic bubbling up in his throat. He can deal with fans when he’s separated by barricades and spotlights or when he’s in a bar and suitably drunk. But when he’s mostly sober like this, making his way from hotel to bus, and some random overzealous fan puts her hands on him? He can’t handle that. The crazies freak him out, always have. Wasn’t that long ago that Lennon was murdered. It’s not paranoia, it’s caution.

He speed-walks the rest of the way to the bus, dragging hard on his cigarette to keep the nerves at bay. 

His bandmates are already on the bus and Connor gives him a dirty look. Still pissed Bellamy picked Murphy over him last night, apparently. Murphy shoots him a conspiratory grin. Seems someone else got laid last night. Good for him. 

Chuck climbs up into the bus, followed by their security guy. “Alright, guys,” Chuck says, exasperated. “We’re running late, so I need you all to be on your best behavior when we get to the venue, got it?”

Miller nods in agreement while Murphy gives a sarcastic assent and Connor rolls his eyes. Chuck fixes his stare on Bellamy. “Got it?” He asks, voice stern.

“Yeah, man. Got it,” he says, exasperated. The soundchecks he can handle, it’s the massive shows that grate on him. But he can handle this. After tonight, it’s four shows down, fifty nine to go. He’ll be fine.

…

Soundcheck goes well, only a brief argument breaking out between Murphy and Connor, so shit’s alright, all things considered. He’s tempted to run off and get drunk somewhere, but Chuck corners him and informs him there’s a journalist here to interview him. Being a frontman fucking sucks.

He follows his manager to where the interviewer’s set up and sees a kid with shaggy brown hair sitting there looking far too eager. The kid’s wearing a denim vest and ripped jeans and he looks like a puppy dog trying to be punk rock. Bellamy can already tell this is gonna be a real drag. 

The interviewer looks up excitedly when he spots Bellamy and hops up to shake his hand. “Hi, Mr. Blake, it’s so nice to meet you! I’m Finn Collins, I work for the Baltimore Sun! I caught the show last night, you guys absolutely killed it, just like always.” The kid’s talking a mile a minute and Bellamy’s exhausted already. If he could get away with pulling out his flask in front of a reporter, he would, but he’d rather keep his drinking habits on the down low.

“Wait,” he says, finally catching up with the kid’s words. “You said your name was Finn?”

The kid nods fervently, hair shaking out around him, just adding to the whole puppy dog effect. “Yeah! That’s me! So, I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the new album and this tour and everything, if that’s alright?” Bellamy’s not even processing his words anymore. Finn. Where has he heard that name before?

He nods and gestures for Finn to get the interview started as he pulls out a smoke and lights up, the picture of disinterest. Interviews for small town newspapers? Such bullshit. 

“So, I wanted to ask, this album has really signified a shift from some of your older stuff. What sort of influences did you have going into the studio?” 

Bellamy rattles off some bullshit about the early punk music of the 70s, name-dropping acts like Dead Kennedys and The Clash, carefully skirting around Sex Pistols, considering Sid Vicious’s violent history. “I wouldn’t classify _Cutting Edge_ as a punk album, though,” Bellamy says. Chuck had advised him to avoid pigeonholing the band as much as possible, and he probably had a point. They’ve gotta be marketable, after all. “It’s got plenty of rock influences, too. I pulled from shit like Springsteen’s _Darkness on the Edge_, and early Petty.” 

Finn nods along like he’s following Bellamy’s rambling. He launches into another question, something about their live shows, but...oh shit. Bellamy remembers where he’s heard this guy’s name before. The singer from last night, her boyfriend was named Finn. It’s probably not the same kid, but he still feels a bitter sort of anger fill his gut. He answers the kid’s questions mechanically, unable to really sift through his thoughts now that he’s focusing on that chick. 

He thinks back to Anya’s card sitting in his jacket pocket back at the hotel. Maybe if he called her and asked nice enough, she’d put him in touch with the girls. He could frame it as wanting to set them up with his manager, someone from the label. They certainly have the talent for it, that could be a believable lie. Not a lie exactly. A half-truth. That might work.

They make it through another ten minutes of questions before they finally hit the one Bellamy’s been dreading. “So the tour’s called _The Red Queen & Me_.” Bellamy nods, mouth a tight line as he lights another cigarette. “There’s been a lot of speculation about who exactly that’s referencing.” Yeah, asshole, he’s aware. “Can you tell me anything about that? Who is the Red Queen? Is she real? Is she an ex? Current partner?”

Bellamy scowls and pulls on his smoke. No, fucker, he can’t tell you anything about that. He doesn’t owe his life to these fucking bottom feeders who never stop begging for a peek at what it’s like behind the curtain. This asshole doesn’t deserve to know his life, what he’s been through. None of them do. He pulls himself together just enough that he can be sure his voice won’t shake when he answers. “I don’t wanna talk about that, man.” Before Finn can launch into another question, Bellamy stands, wiping his hands on his jeans. “This interview is over. I’ll catch you later.” 

It was a good interview, as far as these things go. Murphy’s flipped tables on more than one occasion in front of reporters. So Bellamy was a little curt. It could’ve been worse. Hopefully Pike’ll be satisfied.

The show’s a couple hours away still, so Bellamy figures he can get away with sneaking off for a little bit. He makes his way through the venue cautiously, hoping to find a side door he can sneak through without being noticed. He passes the green room surreptitiously, managing to avoid his friends’ eyes and make it out the back.

He realizes his mistake just as he’s nearing the bus. The drum tech and his Asian friend are standing around smoking something that smells suspiciously like grass. As soon as they spot him, they stub out the joint, as if that makes it less shady. “Bellamy!” the kid with the top curl yells. Fuck, what’s his name? He still can’t remember. “What’s up, man?” 

He makes his way over, a bit unsure of himself, and gives the guys a tight grin. “Hey. Can I get a hit of that?” 

The Asian kid barks out a laugh and grabs the joint from his friend, sparking up again. “Here you go,” he says, handing it over. 

Bellamy takes it from him and takes a hard puff, blowing out smoke rings. He’s got a few party tricks up his sleeve, he’s not afraid to show them off. “So,” he says, holding in another lungful of smoke, “Remind me of your names again?”

“Oh! I’m Jasper,” the first kid says, “and this is Monty!” Enthusiastic little shit, isn’t he?

“Well, it’s nice to officially meet you guys.” He knows technically he met them before the tour even started, when they were running through tech rehearsals and hammering down a bare bones set list, but roadies are disposable and he’s long since stopped caring about their names. 

He passes the joint off to Jasper who looks overjoyed to be sharing a smoke with him. As if they’re not on tour together, about to spend the next three months trapped in close quarters. Granted, it’s not every day some random wannabe has the chance to get high with one of the biggest musicians of their generation. 

“I’m heading out, gonna go grab some coffee,” he says, lying through his teeth. “Later.” 

Monty and Jasper fall all over themselves wishing him goodbye, and he smirks as he turns away. The kids can be pretty entertaining sometimes. He’s started to forget that fact.

Lighting another cigarette, he starts off in search of a liquor store. There probably aren’t any bars open around this time, but at least he can get something to fill his flask. 

He catches sight of the end of the line of fans already swarming the venue and he tucks his chin, attempting to look inconspicuous. He heads in the opposite direction of the line and wanders around Baltimore for a few blocks, lazily chain smoking through his half-empty pack of smokes. He hasn’t spent much time in this town so it’s not long before he’s hopelessly lost.

He finds himself standing at an intersection when someone taps him on the shoulder. He nearly jumps out of his skin before he takes in the girl standing behind him. 

“You look a little lost,” Raven says with a smirk and he finds himself smiling back.

“Yeah, just wondering where a guy can find a refill,” he says, holding up his flask. She huffs out a short laugh and he finds himself wishing he could hear what she sounds like when she’s truly, genuinely amused. Sure, he’s into her friend, but she’s quite intriguing herself. He wouldn’t mind taking this one for a spin. 

“Come on,” she says. He’s following before his brain can catch up with his feet. This girl could be leading him anywhere, but he gets the sense that he should still follow her. Even if she led him down some dark alley, she’d probably have her reasons. “How are you liking Baltimore?”

The question catches him off guard, but he takes it in stride, still geared up from his interview. “It’s good. I really liked your set last night.” 

She looks away and smiles, tucking her hair behind her ear like she’s embarrassed. Please. She must hear this shit all the time, but her humble reaction tells him she doesn’t. “That means a lot coming from you,” she says. Her voice is timid, guarded. It sounds wrong coming from her.

“I just speak the truth.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the pretty ones,” he says, unable to stop himself from flirting. “Seriously though, you guys killed it.”

“Thanks. I’ll have to tell the girls you said that.”

An idea occurs to him. He doesn’t need to call Anya at all. “Speaking of, I think we’re gonna have an afterparty later at the hotel. You guys should come.” 

Her eyes light up and she smiles wide and genuine. “That sounds fun.” Her tone is playing for casual, but he can see the excitement in her expression. She stops walking and points at the shop behind him, “Liquor store. Good prices.”

He turns and checks out the tiny store tucked in between a cafe and a laundromat. “Choice,” he says. “You got a pen, by the way?” Raven roots around in her purse for a minute before pulling one out. He grabs her hand and scribbles the name of the hotel and his room number. Just in case. “I’ll see you later, then,” and he releases her hand and gives his most charming grin, the one that makes knees weak and panties drop.

“Sure, yeah. See you later.” She walks off and he catches her glancing down at her palm. Cute. 

The liquor store is cramped as hell, but it’s stocked floor to ceiling with enough booze to feed several thirsty rock stars for a month at least. He wanders the aisles aimlessly, skimming his fingers across shelves and labels, taking stock of his options. When he hits the whiskey, he’s drawn to the Jameson. He could go for some good old Irish luck.

When he walks up to the register, he throws a couple bills down and drums his fingers on the counter. “Can I also get a pack of Camels?”

The cashier looks up from a magazine to grab the smokes and when he faces Bellamy his eyes widen. “Holy crap, ain’t you that singer guy?” Jesus fuck, he can’t catch a break.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“My girl loves you guys! Fuck, I have a pen here somewhere,” and he starts looking around frantically, “I gotta get your autograph, shit!”

Bellamy huffs. “Can you just bag my stuff?” 

The guy stops his shuffling and stares at him, slack-jawed. When he recovers, he pulls out a paper bag and roughly shoves the bottle and the smokes in it, muttering to himself, “Fucking prick.” He thrusts the bag at Bellamy and turns back to his magazine, resolutely ignoring him. 

Bellamy grabs his shit and walks out, lighting up as soon as he’s outside. Fuck that guy. 

The walk back to the venue takes longer than he thought it would and he thinks he probably got a little turned around at some point. Harder to find his way in this city he doesn’t know when he doesn’t have someone to show him the way. At least he makes it back, and he’s only been missing for a little over an hour. 

A security guy nods at him when he flashes his tour badge and lets him right through. The venue’s winding hallways are just as easy to get lost in as the sprawling city outside. He tucks himself away into a dark corner and pulls out the whiskey and his flask, filling it up, before making his way to the green room.

Miller and Murphy are there, arguing over the set list, but Connor’s nowhere to be found. “We should definitely play ‘Last Chance’ tonight, the crowd always goes nuts for that one,” Miller says confidently and Murphy scoffs.

“Right. Because you totally care about the crowd.” Miller opens his mouth to interrupt but Murphy talks over him. “You just want a long drum solo!”

“So I want to get a chance to fucking play, what’s so bad about that?”

“I’m just saying, there’s no room for that song! We only have two hours tonight. The set list is fine as is, and if we were gonna change it around, we should play something off the new album! What’s the point in bringing back the old shit?”

Bellamy decides to chime in. “I don’t know, man, kids go crazy for the old shit.” 

“Great, take his side. Fuck you, Blake.” So much for their temporary truce.

“I’m not taking his side! I’m just saying he makes a good point!” 

“Yeah, Murphy,” Miller says, smug, “I make a good point.”

“Go to hell, Miller.” 

Pulling out a fresh cigarette, Bellamy decides to ease the tension, change the subject. “Hey, Murph, I saw that Raven chick from last night again.”

The argument is immediately forgotten as Murphy gets a sly look on his face. “Oh yeah?”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I ran into her on the way to get some booze, invited her to the afterparty.” Miller perks up at the mention of alcohol and Bellamy hands off his spoils. He flicks his lighter a couple times for something to do with his hands. “Told her to bring the rest of the band.” He lights his smoke and resolutely does not meet Murphy’s eyes. He doesn’t need to see it to know the look he’s giving, suggestively raising his eyebrows and smirking.

“That singer really got to you, huh?” He plucks the cigarette out of Bellamy’s hand and takes a long drag. “Did you forget the part where she has a boyfriend?”

“Please,” Miller says, leaning back and throwing him a shit-eating grin. “Like a boyfriend’s gonna stop a chick from fooling around with a rock star.” Bellamy laughs. That’s another good point. 

They sit around for a while, the three of them shooting the shit and sipping at the whiskey. Miller and Murphy take a few more swipes at each other over the set list before deciding they’ll just throw ‘Last Chance’ somewhere in the middle of the show and calling it a day. 

Connor makes an appearance at last and he looks like he just got dragged out of the gutter. His pupils are blown and his shirt’s rumpled, a love bite high up on his neck. Great, a coked out, sex high guitarist. That should make for a killer performance. 

It’s twenty minutes before their set when Bellamy starts feeling the jitters hit him. They don’t have a supporting band until they hit Chicago and that’s over a month away, so the show tonight rests entirely on them. They’ve never toured without support before and it seemed like a smart move when they were talking about it, but in the moment it feels like the stupidest thing he’s ever agreed to. He knows he has the talent to back it up, but his gut burns knowing that if he’s not absolutely perfect, _his_ band is the only one people are going to be talking about. Can’t blame a shitty show on shitty support, no, it’s all on them.

He sneaks off to the bathroom and pulls out his flask, hands shaking. He’s already got a decent buzz going, but it’s not enough to get him out on that stage in front of another sold out crowd. This liquid courage is the only thing that can push him out there.

He hides out as long as he can, chugging the rest of his whiskey in secret, until Chuck starts pounding on the door and telling him it’s show time. He checks his reflection in the mirror to make sure he’s presentable and splashes some cold water on his face. He can do this.

As they walk to sidestage, a tech goes over the set list for him again to make sure he’s got it down. He could play these songs in his sleep at this point, he’ll be fine. That Monty kid hands him his custom Les Paul and he takes a few steadying breaths to prepare. He can hear the crowd chanting, _Bad-lands, Bad-lands, Bad-lands_, and the roar is deafening even from here.

Nate takes the stage first, settling in at the drum kit and Bellamy can see him positively beaming at the crowd, pointing a stick at some faceless kid down in front. He starts up a steady beat with the kick drum and the energy is rising. 

Murphy’s next, crossing to the far side of the stage, and he screams out into the audience, getting them further pumped up. Connor joins him and plays a quick riff as Miller picks up on the drums, rolling on the snare. 

Bellamy’s hand tightens around the neck of his guitar and he starts bouncing on the balls of his feet. Fake it ‘till you make it, right?

He jumps in place, once, twice, and runs up the steps, launching out on stage like a bullet from a gun. His guitar joins Connor’s, and Nate slams on the cymbals, crashing into their set in a practiced, carefully constructed sort of way that makes it feel natural. The vibe, right from the start, always feels genuine, even after running through it hundreds of times. It’s positively _electric_. They built their reputation on this intro, on their stage presence in general, how they get the energy up right from the start and just get it higher and higher throughout the set—all rise, no fall. 

Even their slow songs are usually met with dancing and cheering, fans shoving each other to get as close to the stage as possible for a chance to be touched by the light of the stars. 

Their intro winds down and he leans in close to the mic, speaking softly as the kids hold onto his every word. “Y’all are watching a band called Badlands,” he says. “Welcome to the show.” 

The crowd absolutely fucking loses it and he steps away from the mic to play the opening notes of their latest single. Murphy and Connor can handle the crowd interaction for the rest of the set. He’ll sing his words and the fans will sing them back and he’ll thank them at the end and that’ll be it. Being a rock star is great, sure, but he was born to _play_ music, not perform it. He was meant to write songs and strum his guitar, not play in stadiums where he lays his soul bare and thousands of people who think they know him turn him into something bigger than human.

He looks out at the masses and listens as they scream his lyrics. Sure, this may not have been how he imagined his life to play out and sure, sometimes he despises it, but this? Being a goddamn god to these people? 

Well, sometimes, it’s pretty fucking incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i think we're looking at a weekly (maybe biweekly?) update schedule. update days will be fridays. each chapter is gonna be around this length, from like 8-10k words so uhhh we're looking at quite a behemoth of a fic here, y'all. 
> 
> shoutout to [throam](https://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/55360.html) for giving me some insp on this chapter. 
> 
> check out the tumblr i gratuitously made for this fic [here!](http://thath-fic.tumblr.com) you can find me on tumblr [here](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com).
> 
> i wanna give major thanks to everyone who helped with the editing process of this chapter, namely [cass](https://detectivebellamyblake.tumblr.com/), [shae](https://shaeheda.tumblr.com/), [ali](https://lameblake.tumblr.com/), and [kara](https://mylifeiskara.tumblr.com/). i cannot thank [katie](https://bellarkatie.tumblr.com/) enough for being my cheerleader and number one fan throughout all of this. also gotta give major props to the maternal unit for being my human encyclopedia of all things 80s.
> 
> thanks to everyone who commented and dropped kudos, i love you very much. i'll see y'all next week :)


	3. Chapter Two: just the in-betweens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for drug/alcohol abuse, cheating, brief-but-detailed panic attack, and _very_ explicit cocaine use. message me on [tumblr](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com) for more details

The air is heavy with pot smoke and the stench of beer, sweat, and cigarettes. People are crammed into Bellamy’s hotel room and the party’s spilling out into the hallway, taking over the entire sixth floor of their hotel.

He’s got a girl in his lap, a chick with long blonde hair, a puffy skirt, fishnets, bright red lipstick—a real Madonna wannabe type. She’s hot, though, and whispering all sorts of dirty things in his ear and he’s looking forward to pulling her into the bathroom later for a quick fuck. These girls make it almost too easy.

There’s a commotion by the door and Bellamy looks up, curious. 

“I just need to talk to Bellamy! I’m with the band, asshole!” 

It’s that kid, Jasper, trying to push his way into the room and some big guy who’s declared himself their pseudo-bouncer for the evening turns to check in with Bellamy. He nods, silent permission to let him in. Jasper pushes through the small groups of people gathered around the room and turns down someone’s offer of beer in favor of making his way over to Bellamy.

“Hey, kid, what’s up?” 

Jasper stammers and awkwardly waves at the girl on Bellamy’s lap, then shakes his head, remembering his mission. “Murphy sent me? He wanted me to tell you that, um. Shit, what did he say?” Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah! He said, ‘Tell Blake those chicks are here.’ I don’t know which chicks he means, but-”

Bellamy cuts him off. “Where?”

“Murphy’s room, 619, I think?” 

He pushes the girl off his lap and shoves his way through the party, clear goal in mind. He plucks a can out of someone’s hand and chugs the half-empty Coors, tossing aside the empty. A handful of people try to get his attention as he maneuvers around the crowded hallway, but he brushes them off.

Murphy’s room is only a couple down and his door is propped open just like Bellamy’s. There are more people packed in here, though, probably because Murphy’s actually thought to add in background noise to this mess, MTV blasting from the television at full volume. On the screen, Mark Goodman smiles from under his thick mop of curls and introduces a video by some new band called A-ha. 

The video’s pretty trippy. He thinks it’d probably be cool to watch when he’s pleasantly baked. 

He finds Murphy tucked into a corner, tongue down some chick’s throat. “Murph,” he calls, grabbing him by the shoulder.

Murphy unwinds himself from around the girl and it takes a second for his eyes to focus in on Bellamy. “Oh, hey, man!”

“Hey, Jasper said you were looking for me.” 

“Jasper?” He looks confused for a minute before he processes Bellamy’s words. “Shit, yeah! The girls, dude, those girls!”

“Yeah, Murphy, I know, where are they?” he asks, getting impatient.

“I saw them, they were just here, fuck, where’d they go?” He’s looking around and abandons the girl he was just groping. “I swear, I _just_ saw them. Come on.” Bellamy sighs, but follows behind him. 

They wind through the party, Murphy crashing through the crowds more than anything else and Bellamy apologizes for his bandmate along the way. They step out onto the wide balcony, and there they are, passing around a joint. They’ve brought friends and Bellamy’s dismayed to see that fucking reporter is with them. Great, so it was indeed the same Finn.

“Hey there, ladies,” Murphy drawls, throwing an arm around Raven’s shoulders and reaching for the joint. “Let me get some of that.”

Monroe raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, but passes it to him, breaking the rotation. Murphy pulls on it greedily, smoking his fill before passing it to Bellamy. He puffs once, twice, and passes back to the drummer.

Finn perks up when Bellamy joins the circle. “Hey, hi!” He’s so goddamn over-enthusiastic, fuck. “It was so good talking to you earlier! Sorry I got a bit personal, didn’t mean to pry, it’s just part of the job, you know?” Yeah, of course he knows. This kid was no worse than every other reporter he’s ever talked to. Hell, he was more respectful than most. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, totally, word!” He takes a hit off the joint when it gets to him and passes it off. “I just wanted to say, I was so psyched when Raven told us you’d invited the band to the afterparty! I was like, ‘What? That’s fuckin’ choice, man!’ And now here we are, and I’m smoking with half of fucking Badlands!” He turns to the girl next to him, the one Bellamy has been resolutely not looking at since they walked over. “How gnarly is this, babe?”

She nods half-heartedly, like she doesn’t actually think it’s ‘gnarly’ at all.

Murphy nudges Bellamy with his elbow and clears his throat, making a show of it. “So,” he says, all puffed-up and he turns to address the singer, to address _Clarke_, who is _here_. “I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” He offers his hand and she looks down at it, narrows her eyes, and decidedly does not shake it. 

“No, we haven’t.” Her voice is even more hypnotizing when it’s not filtered through a microphone. 

“I’m Murphy,” he says, still sounding like an utter degenerate.

She rolls her eyes. “I’m aware.” She fixes her eyes on Bellamy and he feels all the air rush out of his lungs. Fuck, her _eyes_. “And you’re Bellamy.” The way she says his name, like she really couldn't care less about him or his fame...it’s intoxicating. 

Bellamy coughs, says, “It’s nice to meet you.” She looks unimpressed. He pulls out a cigarette and it takes him a couple tries to get it lit. He wipes his palms on his jeans and slowly inhales the smoke, letting the nicotine calm his fraying nerves. “We caught your set last night. Y’all were great.”

Clarke stands up a bit straighter at that, and now he’s got her interested. “Really?” 

“Yeah!” Raven says, “I _told_ you we met them!”

“You didn’t say they liked us!” Clarke hisses. She turns back to Bellamy, “Thank you, that really means a lot.” She’s the picture of the polite artist, genuinely humble, but not shrugging off the praise. She clearly knows how good she is so what the hell is she doing in some shitty bar band?

“Oh yeah,” Murphy says, leaning forward and winking, “Bellamy just loved you guys.”

“Shut up, Murphy.”

He holds his hands up in surrender and smirks. “Hey, you’re the one who insisted on meeting them.” 

Clarke poorly suppresses a smirk and nods. “You insisted, huh?” Oh, she’s enjoying this, is she? He can feel his cheeks warming. He’s probably blushing and he’s thanking god for his darker complexion because it’s (hopefully) not too obvious how embarrassed he is.

He tries to sound more confident than he feels, “Well, if I were you, I’d be honored.” 

She scoffs and looks away, taking a long sip of her beer. Harper coughs and speaks up, and Bellamy had almost forgotten that the rest of Clarke’s band was here, too. “Well, um, I’m honored, really, that’s such a huge compliment.” Bellamy flashes her a wide smile and he can see Murphy puffing up his chest out of the corner of his eye. Typical. “Seriously, Badlands is like, half the reason we’re even a band.” 

It’s Bellamy’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “Is that so?” He flicks his gaze over to Clarke and sees she’s flushing, looking away. 

“Yeah, totally,” Harper says, nodding fervently. 

He sees Monroe shrug. “Not you?”

She looks surprised that he’s addressing her at all. “Oh, I mean, you guys are tight, but I like harder stuff. Black Sabbath, Zeppelin. That sort of thing.”

Finn cuts in, “But that’s where Badlands is heading, man! I mean, you’ve heard _Cutting Edge_!”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “It’s hardly ‘hard rock,’” she says, embellishing her words with a sarcastic set of air quotes and Bellamy finds himself suppressing a laugh, the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Scoffing, Finn cuts back, “It totally is, you’re just not listening right! Bellamy, back me up here, _Cutting Edge_ is like, the future of hard rock!” Bellamy’s momentarily taken aback by Finn using his name so casually, like they’re old friends, like they go way back. He’s got no desire to be nice to this kid, and he’s all too aware that he needs to be careful of how he answers. This is a fucking reporter, after all. Who knows what he’ll decide to put in the papers?

“I don’t know, I told you earlier, I pulled from a lot of different influences.”

Murphy scoffs. “_You_ pulled? Last I checked, we all worked on that album.”

Well, fuck. Where did that weed go? He’s feeling far too sober to deal with this shit right now. “I mean. I wrote all the lyrics and almost all the music on it.”

“Hey, I wrote my fair share of the basslines.”

“Right, and I recorded half of them anyway.” 

“Fuck off, Blake.” Murphy’s expression has shuttered off, his jovial smile long gone. Looks like they’re back to being enemies. He stalks off back inside, shoulders tense. Well screw him. Bellamy’s twice the musician Murphy will ever be, he doesn’t need that prick crashing his own personal pity party. He can drag himself down all on his own.

Raven lets out a low whistle. “Well, okay then,” she says. “I’m...gonna go check on him.” More like she’s gonna go suck him off in the bathroom, most likely, but whatever. She’s not the one Bellamy’s really got his eyes on anyway. 

“Is it, uh,” Clarke starts awkwardly, “Is it always that hostile?”

He sighs, takes a long drag of his cigarette, considers his words carefully. “No, no, I mean, it’s not...It’s not always like that,” he says, lying like hell, trying to protect the band’s reputation. It’s not widely known that they don’t get along, and you’d never know it by watching them perform. No, their shouting matches are reserved for green rooms and tour buses and recording studios, constantly covering up their dirty laundry and fronting like everything’s just peachy keen. “Just. Touring is stressful, you know? Barely any sleep, close quarters, that kind of thing. You get in each other’s hair, bump elbows. It happens. But yeah, no, we’re fine, everything’s great.”

“God, I can’t imagine fighting like that,” Harper says, pitying. “I mean, we’re all best friends. We never really argue.”

“Never?” he asks. Surely it can’t be _never_. Everyone fights with their best friends. Don’t they?

Clarke considers for a moment, then shakes her head. “No, not really. I mean, we have no secrets. Nothing to fight about.” 

But he sees the way Finn stiffens, the way he suddenly looks uncomfortable, downing the rest of his drink. “I’m gonna go get more beer, anyone want anything?” he asks. Bellamy tells Finn to grab him some scotch and watches him leave. His footsteps are hurried and he glances over his shoulder, catches Bellamy looking. His eyes widen and he moves quicker. From this vantage point, tucked in the corner of the balcony, Bellamy loses track of him in the overcrowded room. Huh. Interesting.

Clarke’s smiling and talking to Monroe about something. God, he’d seen her grinning wickedly up on stage last night, but this is something else, something private and real, a smile shared between friends. She’s beautiful in this untouchable way, but that smile, oh. That smile. It humanizes her, and that, paired with her apparent disinterest in his star status, makes it feel like he could have a real conversation with her. One not tainted by slack jaws and awe-filled eyes. Monroe and Raven put on a good front, but he can see the way their eyes linger on him, the curiosity there, how they’re not entirely themselves around him, trying to impress. But Clarke. Fuck. 

The way she talks to him, casually pulling him into the conversation like it’s nothing, the way she passes him the joint, her fingers carelessly brushing against his, the way she looks at him like he’s just some random guy at a party. She knows who he is, she knows his music, but he isn’t “Bellamy fucking Blake” to her. She acts like he’s just...Bellamy. Even when people don’t immediately recognize him, they all get that look on their faces like they’re trying to figure out where they’ve seen him before, and it’s fucking exhausting. He’s sick of fans, he’s sick of signing shit and having his picture taken, he’s sick of the whole world dying to rub elbows with him and get a hit of hand-me-down limelight. 

This girl doesn’t give a shit about his fame. She’s talking to him like he’s just another nobody. It’s as though he’s hiding in plain sight and it’s positively thrilling. He wants to live in this feeling.

She glances at him and he’s frozen in place, cigarette halfway to his mouth. He offers a shy smile, and her own turns to something quieter, a hesitant offering, and it’s everything, god, it’s fucking everything. 

Her eyes dart away too soon. He takes in a shaky breath and runs a hand through his hair. Clearing his throat, he tells the girls, “I’m, um. Gonna go see where Finn went.” They nod and smile and continue on with their conversation. 

The hotel room is less crowded now, the television muted. Bellamy sees Murphy sitting on the bed with a guitar, strumming lazily while a couple girls lean in a bit too close, showing off their cleavage and passing around a joint. He doesn’t see Finn anywhere, nor does there appear to be anything to drink here other than beer and coconut rum. Pass. 

There’s some more liquor back in his room, if he remembers correctly. Someone brought some by earlier, because he’d been drinking and laughing and...fuck, his night was so much less confusing when he was chatting with that groupie. Now, the only thing on his mind is Clarke. 

His room seems to be the new center of the party. Connor’s entertaining some girls with stories of the tour life that, based on what Bellamy’s hearing, are complete bullshit. He rolls his eyes and looks around for the alcohol.

There’s a mostly full bottle of vodka sitting on the desk. Some cheap brand, probably tastes like rubbing alcohol, but it’ll do the job. He swipes it and leaves the room, doing his best to ignore Connor’s rambling. God, that guy thinks he’s the center of the fucking universe. He’d be nothing without Bellamy, nothing. He’d be just another loser who never made it out of that crappy town they once called home, and he’d be bagging groceries or waiting tables for the rest of his life. Bellamy’s the one who invited him into the band. Bellamy’s the only reason that people know that narcissistic asshole’s name. Fucking hell.

He should’ve just gone it on his own. He could’ve been like Dylan, like Bowie, fucking Elvis. He’s got the talent. He could’ve done it.

Fuck.

He needs to get out of here.

The stairs sound more appealing than the elevator right now; he needs to be moving, needs to get some air, and the idea of standing in a tiny box with mind-numbing Muzak trickling through outdated speakers sounds like torture.

He takes a swig of vodka, grimacing at the taste. Shit, that’s bad, but it goes to his head almost instantly, making his vision blur for a second, making the ringing in his ears fade to more of a pleasant buzz, and it feels good. Little bit of poison on his lips to chase away the panic on his tongue. He can hear the opening notes of a song stemming from that line and he shakes his head to try to clear it. He doesn’t need to be thinking of work right now. He needs a fucking break.

When he slips into the stairwell, it’s shockingly quiet compared to the noise of the party. He pauses, blinking hard and getting his bearings. Taking a look around, he notes that the dingey stairwell doesn’t match the rest of the hotel. It’s a pretty nice place, but these steps look like they’ve seen better days. He considers for a moment. Up or down?

It’s probably less likely that he’ll run into anyone if he heads up. Fans love to loiter around lobbies and parking lots hoping for a glimpse of the band and he’d rather not risk it right now. So up he goes, up, up, up, and he’s sipping at the bottle the whole way, stumbling a bit the higher he gets. The more he drinks, the lighter he feels. When he stumbles over a step he feels laughter bubble up in his throat, and nothing’s funny, but he’s cracking himself up anyway. Stairway up to the roof, stairway to fucking heaven, man. Hilarious.

When he hits the landing at the top, he sees that the door to the roof is already propped open. Looks like he’s not the only one who’s hiding out up here. Well that just won’t do, no sir, he’ll tell them to fuck off, and he’s a big-shot so they’ll do what he says. He’s a big deal, people listen to him, oh yes they do. He laughs again to himself. Fuck, this vodka might taste like ass, but it’s strong stuff.

He stumbles outside into the cool night air, pulling a cigarette out one-handed and fumbling with his lighter, reluctant as he is to part with the booze in his other hand. 

There’s a couple up here, wrapped around each other. They don’t even notice him, lost as they are in their frantic making out and over-the-clothes groping. 

“Hey,” he calls out. This roof is his tonight, he’s not sharing. “It’s a fucking hotel, get a room!”

The kids pull apart from each other. In the dim light pouring out from the stairwell, he can see their flushed faces, their kiss-bruised lips, their mussed up hair. 

“Holy shit,” he says, and his lighter falls to the ground and when he laughs this time, his teeth unclench from around his cigarette and so he drops that, too, and he’s cracking up, even though it’s really not all that funny.

Raven, wide-eyed, just stutters, mumbles out, “Um. I’m gonna…,” and she speed walks, rushing past Bellamy and disappearing inside. 

And that fucking journalist, Clarke’s fucking boyfriend. Finn’s looking anywhere but at Bellamy, and he shifts from foot to foot, says, “Right, well,” takes off after Raven, the door to the roof clanging loudly behind him as it slams against the fire extinguisher propping it open, and then it’s quiet, so, so quiet, except for Bellamy’s loud, echoing, hysterical laughter.

_Shit_, he thinks, _shit_. 

That’s fucking priceless.

…

Bus call is bright and early in the morning and he’s not even hungover yet, still mildly drunk from the night before, but he feels like crap.

He shouldn’t care about what he saw last night, but he can’t stop thinking about it. He closes his eyes, and sees Raven and Finn springing apart from each other, caught in the act. And then he pictures Clarke, who thinks there are no secrets amongst friends and lovers, who hands out smiles like they’re going out of style but still has a hard look in her eyes like she’s been burned before. Then he’s remembering Gina and how she didn’t deserve all the shit he put her through, how he’s no good for anyone, how all he does is waltz into people’s lives and leave them broken. It’s like all he knows how to do is fuck up and walk away.

So he gets on the bus, does his best not to blink, and stubbornly pushes away any and all thoughts of Clarke.

The guys are sitting in the front lounge of the bus. Murphy’s sprawled out on one of the two couches, arm thrown over his eyes and breathing deeply. Probably sleeping it off. Jasper and Monty have crammed themselves onto the other couch with another tech whose name Bellamy hasn’t bothered to learn yet. Miller and Connor are sitting at the little table, Miller smoking and Connor munching on some chips. It’s nice. Quiet.

Chuck steps on the bus, their security guy (whose name Bellamy’s also not entirely sure of) following right behind. “Alright,” their manager says, too loud, and Murphy groans loud at the volume. “Next stop is Richmond. It’s a three hour drive. Take your naps now because you’re in interviews all day.” Murphy sucks in a breath like he’s about to argue, but Chuck cuts him off with a stern, “No complaining.” 

Bellamy would take Chuck’s advice and nap, but lying in his tiny bunk does not sound appealing right now. He sits at the table next to Miller and drops his head on his friend’s shoulder. It’s been a long time since the two of them just kicked back and hung out together. Bellamy spends most of his time stuck in his own head, while Miller cleans up his messes. This morning is no different: a pounding headache is taking root behind Bellamy’s eyes as Miller chats with Connor in a soft tone, quietly reassuring him that he is, in fact, a crucial part of the band and his contributions are appreciated. Bellamy would laugh at the absurdity of those condolences if he didn’t know it would just cause more problems.

Back in high school, before all this, before the band, Miller was his best friend in the world. Bellamy’d had to transfer schools when he was fifteen, after all the shit that went down with his mom and his sister, after the cops had gotten involved with all of his family drama and well…things had been rough for a while. And then he’d met Nate fuckin’ Miller.

He and Miller had bonded over their shitty home lives and love of music, skipping school together and hiding out in their local music store, playing at writing songs as if they had any clue what they were doing. They used to sneak into bars to catch sets by small local bands, and there was that one summer back in ‘76 when they cleaned pools and mowed lawns in order to save up enough cash to buy tickets to see bigger bands, the acts they used to idolize who they’ve since hung out with, toured with. He wonders what the sixteen year old versions of themselves would say if they could see who they’ve become.

Bellamy had gotten close with Murphy during their senior year after Nate had dropped out to start working full time. He and Murph had been kicked out of a show together, the bartender having realized they were underage when he clocked their fake IDs, and it was there, sitting in the parking lot, bumming smokes off each other and talking about music, that the idea of starting a band was born. 

It had taken some convincing to get Miller to agree to Bellamy and Murphy’s big dreams and half-cocked plans. He’d said it was a waste of time, that nothing would ever come of it, but Bellamy’s pretty sure that even back then, Miller had been hopeful, had known they were destined for something great.

Bellamy had never wanted to be great. He’d wanted to be good, sure, but just good enough to support himself, track down his sister, live a life where he could play music and then retire and fade into obscurity. 

He realizes now that he’ll never be allowed to simply fade away.

The ride down to Richmond is smooth, hardly any traffic the whole way down, and Bellamy winds up scribbling in his notebook, lyrics full of yearning and loss, the sort of sentiment only shared by those who have felt too angry and too alone for far too long. It’s honest in a way he resents. He’s always laid himself bare for the sake of his music and given away pieces of himself that the world has never deserved. He spills his soul into every record, every song, and the fans gulp it all down and pick apart his words like vultures, leaving him empty. He hates the way he gives everything and gets nothing in return.

In the early days, when there were maybe two or three people at a show who recognized them, who bobbed their heads and mouthed the words back, things were easier. He got used to those open mic nights in dive bars and tiny clubs. Those small shows, maybe a couple hundred people at the very most, were the only times he ever felt comfortable on stage. It was this homey, heady thrill, knowing that people were watching them and genuinely enjoying their music, his music. 

Now that they’ve blown up, it’s all about the sensation of them. He’d found exactly what he wanted back home in those small town venues and he was too caught up in the rush of it all to notice. Then came the label, monetizing their sound and their faces, turning them into a product more than anything else.

But here they are, Richmond, Virginia, their fourth stop, fifth show of the tour, about to step off the bus and into the late morning sunlight. Badlands, summer of ‘85, coming to a town near you. 

There are fans already lined up outside the venue and swarming the bus, trying to get a glimpse at the worn down, hungover rock stars stepping out. The techs go first, trying to clear a path for the band. They do their best, but they’re just a couple of scrawny kids, and there’s at least fifty fans out there with their posters and their cassettes, begging for autographs. 

Bellamy lights a cigarette and waits for the rest of the band to head out there before he makes an appearance. He’s the elusive star, after all. Wouldn’t do for him to be too welcoming. 

Plus, if his bandmates can distract the fans well enough, he might just be able to slip by unrecognized.

He waits a minute, two minutes, before following after and realizes his mistake. Someone screams his name, kids are snapping his photo, thrusting posters in his face, begging for his attention. He was never going to be able to escape their notice.

Luckily, Chuck swoops in to save him, pushing through to grab Bellamy by the arm and steer him into the venue. Some fan managed to snatch the smoke right out of his hands. Fucking vultures. He pulls out another and runs a hand through his hair, noting it’s greasy, limp, desperately needs to be washed. He should’ve showered last night at the hotel, but that was the last thing on his mind at the time.

He wonders if Clarke knows yet, about her boyfriend and best friend, if one of them went and told her the whole filthy truth, or if she’s still blissfully in the dark, believing her relationship to be fine, healthy. Bellamy certainly didn’t go back and tell her—that’s none of his business—but he can’t help but feel like he messed up somehow by not saying anything.

No, he thinks, he’s fucked up enough lives. He didn’t need to be the one to break the news to her. That was someone else’s mistake. Let someone else deal with the consequences.

Chuck steers him to the green room which is thankfully stocked with complimentary booze and snacks. It’s still early so he figures he’ll start with a beer; they’ve got interviews today, after all. 

Connor’s been on his best behavior since getting to the venue, thanks to Miller most likely, adamantly keeping his head down and deliberately ignoring the rest of them. When they sit down with the first couple reporters, Connor sits with his gaze fixed on the ground, sunglasses over his eyes. Bellamy’s pretty sure he’s snoozing the whole time, recovering from something stronger than alcohol. 

If he could get away with kicking Connor out of the band, he would.

They shouldn’t be fucking with drugs. Sure, for now Connor’s only fucking around with grass and snow (who isn’t these days?), but it won’t be long until he gets into the hard stuff and the world’s already lost too many good musicians—too many good _people_—to smack. People like Joplin and Morrison and Bellamy’s own fucking mother. He doesn’t need his band getting tangled up in that shit also. Fighting about it, though, is more trouble than it’s worth. Connor’s an adult, he can make his own bad decisions. So Bellamy keeps his mouth shut.

In all their interviews (six today, he’s counting), the reporters only ask him about the tour’s name twice. _Who is the Red Queen_, they want to know. _Your fans are wondering_. 

“Let them wonder,” he tells one reporter, and to the other, who won’t drop the subject, he says, “She’s Freddy fuckin’ Krueger.” And technically that’s true, with the way she invades his nightmares, so, no he will not elaborate, he will not answer their questions, he will tell no one the full story, because in all honesty, there is no one in the world who deserves this truth. 

When they push and start asking about his personal life, he stops talking entirely. Being in the public eye doesn’t mean they need to actually know him.

Soundcheck goes off without a hitch, and it’s calm, easy. He can look down at his guitar and pretend he’s not facing a stadium that can hold, according to Chuck, over thirteen thousand people. The show tonight isn’t sold out, thank god for that, but it’s still gonna be packed up to the nosebleeds and it’s too much. It’s _too much_. 

Twenty minutes after thrusting his guitar into that Jasper kid’s hands, he’s hyperventilating in a bathroom stall and pulling at his hair so hard his scalp aches with it. He can’t find his fucking cigarettes and he can’t breathe, he can’t fucking breathe and there’s clearly not enough air in the entire goddamn state of Virginia because he _can’t fucking breathe_.

He presses his palms to his eyes, hard, until he sees spots dance around in his vision and tries to count to ten, tries to calm down, but he can’t remember what comes after three. What number comes after three? Shit. Fuck.

“Bellamy?”

He didn’t hear the door open, but he sees now, next to the stall, beat up Vans and the frayed hems of Miller’s faded blue jeans. 

“Bell, is that you?”

He can’t find his voice, just nods, _Yes, it’s me, I’m here_, but Miller can’t see him, obviously. Reaching up with shaking hands, he unlocks the stall and his friend walks in, locks the door again behind him.

Miller holds out Bellamy’s cigarettes, a pack of Camels, that’s right, he left it in the green room before soundcheck. “Thanks, man,” he breathes out. His voice remains steady and he’ll count that as a small victory. One step at a time.

“You been having episodes again?”

Bellamy’s head snaps up, wide-eyed. “What?”

“Come on, Blake.” Miller rolls his eyes. “I’ve been your best friend for almost ten years. You think I don’t know about your little freak-outs?” No, actually, Bellamy thought he’d kept his nerves pretty well hidden. “Do you remember,” Miller starts, looking up to the ceiling, a small smile on his face, “back in ‘78, when we played our first show?”

“Yeah?” Of course he remembers. Where’s Nate going with this?

“It was a disaster, you remember that? You were freaking out so bad, I don’t think you looked at the crowd the entire time, just faced me, back of the stage. Kept giving me this kicked puppy look, like it was somehow my fault that you were up there in the first place. Even though it was your idea!” He pauses, tilts his head. “Well, Murphy’s, too, I guess.” And, yeah, Bellamy remembers that, too. He chuckles now, looking back at it, and Nate joins in. “You’ve come a long way from being that scared kid. You just need to...not think so much.”

“Yeah,” he says in response, “yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“When are you gonna learn, man? I’m always right.” Miller cracks a smile, wide and genuine, and Bellamy feels the pressure in his chest lighten, just a little. “Now come on. We got a show to play.”

Miller offers his hand and pulls Bellamy to his feet. As they walk, he looks over at his friend, breathes deeply now that his lungs are working again, considers Miller’s words. Maybe it really could be that easy. Maybe he can just shut his brain up for a little bit and play his music. Maybe.

…

This tour is going to be the death of him.

...

They’ve had two days off in the last two weeks and his bandmates are grating on his nerves more and more every day. He’d fucked up the Savannah show because he’d gotten too high beforehand and now he’s on edge, wary of screwing things up again.

He’d decided to try taking Miller’s advice, try his best to make his brain shut up, but the closer they get to their hometown, the harder it is. They hit Florida earlier, have the day off before their Miami show, and he’s taking the opportunity to get absolutely plastered. The snow down here is coming straight from Colombia, purest shit in the country apparently, as asserted by the guy who sells it to him. 

They’re staying at the Fontainebleau down near South Beach, and he recognizes the sprawling hotel from that one Bond movie from the 60s. Connor looks around, wide-eyed, and drags them out to the pool, raving about that one scene from _Scarface_, yelling, “Look! Al Pacino sat right there! Al Pacino, man!” 

Bellamy actually met Pacino once, didn’t see what the big deal was. He nods politely, though, pretends to be interested, then wanders over to the poolside bar. “Can I get Johnnie Walker Black, neat?” The bartender nods, moves around quickly, deftly. He pours the whiskey over ice anyway, but that’s fine. Bellamy’s gotta get water in his system somehow, after all. 

He takes his drink and ducks out, heading up to his room on the top floor, a dime bag sitting heavy in his pocket. 

He doesn’t relax fully until the door clicks shut behind him. The air in this state is too thick, weighed down by humidity and salt air, especially here, at a hotel right on the water, and it’s getting harder to breathe by the minute. Now that he’s alone, he takes a minute to make sense of the hurricane raging in his mind, to calm his shaking hands. 

His room is huge, a full suite, a bedroom separate from a small living area. The wide, open balcony looks out over the ocean. The hotel is facing the wrong way to see the sunset, but the sky is still turning a range of colors, from a dusky purple to a blushing, cherry blossom pink, streaked with golden shades of orange and yellow. This close to the sea, the sunset is beautiful, but it still has the bitter tinge of an ending. A bittersweet bookend to another endless day. 

He closes the curtains. He’s got no desire to watch the sky fade into darkness.

The whiskey burns as he downs the rest of his glass, small shards of mostly melted ice scraping at his throat when he swallows those, too, and he coughs hard. There’s a full bottle of Johnnie Walker in the mini bar along with a couple tumblers like the hotel staff is expecting him to share. 

Pouring himself a glass, he settles in on the couch and switches on the television, flips to the news. They’re talking about Reagan again—when aren’t they, these days?—who apparently made an appearance in West Germany earlier. They’re saying he’s sympathizing with the Nazis, called the SS soldiers “victims,” and Bellamy switches off the TV before he can get more angry. That guy’s seriously the president? What the hell is wrong with this country?

He sighs, leaning his head against the back of the couch. He fingers the dime bag sitting in his pocket, pulls it out. Holding it up to the light, he turns it around in his hands. It’s such a small amount, he can’t imagine it would do much damage. Just a little bit of blow, right? No big deal. He’ll do a bump or two, flush the rest. 

Turn his brain off for a bit, like Miller said.

His room key should do the job, and he separates his brain from his body, feeling oddly detached from his movements as he floats above himself, watching while his hand dips the tip of the key into the small bag, uses it to bring a little mound of powder up to his nose. 

It burns, worse than the whiskey, and his eyes fill with tears at the harsh feeling, but he blinks hard, once, twice, feels a rush of something heady and hard. The taste of it hits the back of his throat and he grimaces (shit, that’s disgusting), throws back some more booze to wash the taste out of his mouth. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and exhales slowly, carefully.

For the first time in days, his hands aren’t shaking. There’s this sudden, overwhelming clarity sweeping through his mind, like his thoughts are a rushing river, moving too quickly to grab onto any one in particular. Oh, he could get used to this feeling.

The rest of the bag gets upended onto the coffee table. It looks like a lot more when it’s spread out like this. He takes a second to press his eyes closed, breathing deeply. When he opens them again, he has to blink several times to clear the spots dancing along the edges of his vision. 

He stares down at the powder in front of him, considering for a minute. He pats his pockets in search of his wallet, his license, a dollar bill. 

It’s easy to cut the powder into short lines, harder to breathe all of them in. When he gets through them all, though, his mind is blissfully empty, nothing but an unwavering focus and an itch under his skin that’s telling him to get up and _do_ something. His hands don’t shake when he lights his cigarette, when he pours more whiskey and throws it back, when he tucks his wallet back into his pocket. 

This is Miami Beach and it’s his day off. He’ll be assed if he’s gonna spend the whole night locked in his hotel room and feeling sorry for himself.

He changes quickly, pulling off his tour clothes. He’s got a loose-fitting shirt with him, something with a wide collar and short sleeves that he only buttons up midway. His black jeans are cuffed above his ankles, pair of Chuck’s peeking out underneath. Checking in the mirror before he leaves, he notices a hint of white still on his nose, which he wipes at hard, rubbing the residue on his gums. This shit tastes terrible, worse than any cheap liquor he’s ever had, but the taste is worth it for the headrush it gives him.

The hotel bar is packed, and he spots Murphy chatting up some chicks. The rest of the band is probably in there enjoying the spotlight. He’ll pass on that.

Outside, the night is quiet, the sound of waves crashing against the shore the only thing disturbing the stillness. There’s a bar down the road, some sleazy hole in the wall where no one would think to look for him. 

The place is mostly empty aside from a few patrons scattered around who look at home here. Country music spills out from the jukebox, nothing he recognizes, but it’s nice. His eyes are still wide, frantic and half-crazed probably, but no one looks at him twice. Even the bartender merely serves him and walks away, mouthing along to the music as he goes.

Bellamy feels invisible here. He finds he doesn’t mind it so much.

“Hey, mopey,” a deep voice says from next to him. He looks over. The guy’s got a scraggly beard and a crooked nose, looks like he’s seen better days. “Ain’t seen you around before.”

He takes a long sip of his drink before he answers. “I’m just passing through.”

The guy sizes him up then shrugs, settling into the stool beside him. He calls the bartender over and says, “Lemme get a PBR and one of whatever he’s having.” Bellamy tries to wave him off, but the guy insists. “You look like you could use it, kid. Long day?”

He laughs, and it sounds hollow even to him. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“I’m Cliff,” he says with a smile.

Bellamy hesitates, figures it’s safer to lie. “Rick,” he responds, offering a hand to shake. 

He sits with Cliff, trading stories of their lives until last call. Bellamy lies through his teeth all night, but it feels good, pretending to be someone else. 

His high starts to wane, washing away with each drink, but that’s alright. He’s found some solace here in this bar that feels removed from time. 

As he’s standing up, getting ready to walk out into the muggy air, he hears a commotion by the jukebox. Some bigger guys, who must have trickled in a little bit ago while Bellamy was busy counting bottles on the wall behind the bar, are pushing around a little guy who’s spitting curses at them and taking swings. He’s slurring and swaying, but the men surrounding him don’t seem to care. Bellamy wants to ignore it, but when one of them decks the drunk guy and lays him out flat, he can’t help but intervene.

“Hey!” he calls, balling up his fists. “Fuck off!”

Cliff grabs his elbow and mumbles out, “Back off, Rick, you don’t want to mess with them.”

He shakes off his new friend, though, stalking over to the group of assholes. One of them steps in close, gets in Bellamy’s face. “We gonna have a problem here?”

“You could say that.” And before the guy can respond, Bellamy throws a punch that catches him square in the jaw. 

It hurts his hand like hell, but it feels good, a rush of power. He barks out a laugh that’s cut off quick as one of the other guys slams his fist into Bellamy’s stomach. It knocks the wind out of him in a whoosh, and the force of it causes him to double over. The next hit connects with his eye, a mean uppercut that sends him sprawling backwards.

He loses the thread of what’s happening then, but he’s pretty sure he landed a few more hits before hands are pulling him away, wrenching his hands behind his back and, oh, those are handcuffs clicking into place, too tight around his wrists.

The cop roughly crams him into the back of his cruiser and Bellamy’s heart is pounding, breath coming out in rough pants, and he feels _alive_ for the first time in months.

“You don’t want to mess with those guys,” the officer says from the front seat. “They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Little too late for that,” Bellamy answers, sighing heavily. 

The drive down to the station is short and the streetlights turn into a blur that makes his head ache, so he shuts his eyes tight to block out the rest of the world and leans his head against the cool glass of the window. This was not how he imagined his night to play out. It’s oddly fitting, though. Of all places to get arrested, of course it’s in fucking Florida. Christ.

When they offer him his phone call, he’s momentarily grateful that Chuck is a big enough douche to have an actual mobile phone. The only problem is, Bellamy doesn’t remember the number. Shit. He’s so screwed right now. He leans back against the wall of the cramped holding cell, getting ready to settle in. Maybe he’ll spend the rest of his life here, in a Florida jail, and no one will ever find him. He can think of plenty of worse ways to go. 

He’s sharing the cell with someone, not one of the men from the bar, but this guy also looks a bit worse for wear. His knuckles are bloodied, lip split, eyeing Bellamy’s black eye and bloody nose like maybe he wants to keep his violent streak going. Bellamy kind of wishes he would.

“What are you looking at?” 

The dude narrows his eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Bellamy laughs, long and loud. “Nah, man.” He sighs and closes his eyes, figures now’s as good a time as any to get some shut eye. “I’m nobody.”

…

When Chuck finally tracks him down, late the next day, he’s furious. “What the fuck, Blake?” He’s yelling, a vein popping in his forehead and Bellamy winces.

“Keep it down, Pike.”

“No! I won’t keep it down!” He’s getting angrier and just staring Bellamy down from the other side of the bars. “I’d expect this kind of stunt from Connor or Murphy, but from you? A bar fight? Seriously? You’re my frontman, I can’t have you pulling this shit!”

“It’s not like I planned it.”

“You’re lucky no one’s pressing charges!”

“Could you just get me out of here?” He’s tired, god, he’s so tired, but he still has to play a show tonight. It’s sold out, too, because everyone knows they’re from around here and they’re nothing short of hometown heroes. He just wants to get this night over with.

Chuck bails him out, scolding him and thrusting a paper coffee cup in his hands. “Drink this.” It’s bitter and lukewarm, but Chuck glares him down before he gets the chance to complain. “It’ll sober you up. Drink.”

When they finally make it to the venue, the place is packed. The car pulls up to a loading bay out back, but there are fans waiting out here, too. His manager hands him a hat and a pair of shades, tells him to cover his face and pull himself together. They move as fast as they can into the venue, ignoring the flashing of cameras, the kids reaching out to grab at him.

His bandmates quiet down as soon as he steps into the green room. He avoids their shocked stares in favor of sinking into one of the couches and throwing an arm over his eyes. 

“Alright,” Chuck announces, “Bellamy’s back. I know we’re cutting it close, but soundcheck went fine, so we should be good to go.”

“What are we playing tonight?” Bellamy mumbles out and he’s met with silence. Dropping his arm, he looks around at the band, whose faces are a mix of anger and astonishment. “What?”

“That’s all you have to say?” Murphy asks, outraged. “_‘What are we playing?_’ Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, confused, “I haven’t seen the set list yet.”

“What the fuck, Bellamy! We were calling hospitals!” Miller’s mad, too, that much is clear. “You’ve been shitfaced ever since we crossed the state line and then you just decide to disappear? You miss soundcheck? We’re going on in thirty minutes and no one could find you! I thought you were dead. Fuck!” He kicks the wall in his frustration and lights up a smoke, puffing frantically at it, then jabbing it in Bellamy’s direction, accusation written in every line of his face. “And you don’t even care. We were terrified, man, and you don’t give a shit.”

“Speak for yourself,” Connor says with an eye roll, sounding disinterested in the whole affair. “If he’d managed to choke on his own vomit, we wouldn’t have to deal with his diva attitude anymore.”

“_My_ diva attitude?” Bellamy asks incredulously. Is this guy serious right now? 

“You heard me.”

“I’m not the one who acts like I invented rock and roll! Guess what, Connor, you’re a fucking nobody without me, without _my_ music.”

“It’s not your music, Blake! We’re a band! It’s _our_ music!” Murphy yells, and it’s funny that he’s the one breaking up the fight for once. “You’ve been acting like a dick for days now and no one’s said anything. Then you went and got your ass thrown in the drunk tank. So sit down and shut up until it’s time to go on.”

Bellamy scoffs loudly. “No,” he says, “no, you know what? I don’t need this. I’m not going on tonight.” His bandmates all start yelling over each other and he’s screaming back at them, “I quit! I fucking quit! Good luck without me, you ungrateful pieces of shit!”

He tries to storm out, but their security guy is blocking the doorway. Fine. He’ll lock himself in the bathroom instead, it’s what he’s best at anyway. Fucking up. Hiding.

He grips the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles turn white and he thinks it ought to be cracking under his grip. His own reflection stares back at him from the mirror and he sees the bags under his eyes, the way he’s lost weight—a liquid diet of nothing but whiskey and cheap beer will do that to a man—and he looks sickly and pale. Washed out. 

Fading away.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He wretches and spews the contents of his stomach straight into the sink, mostly just stomach acid at this point. He left his flask back at the hotel and the green room was notably absent of booze, so he’s got nothing to wash the taste out of his mouth other than rusty tap water that he doesn’t really trust to be safe to drink.

Here he is, locked in a fucking bathroom while his manager bangs on the door, screaming at him that there are eleven thousand fans out there waiting for them, that he needs to come out _right now_ or they’ll be going on late. He splashes water on his face, slaps his cheeks a bit, trying to get some color back into them.

Bellamy doesn’t want to fade away. 

God, he’s always wanted to be someone, _anyone_, and if that someone is an enigmatic rock star who sells out stadiums and makes platinum records, then he’ll do that. Fine. He’ll be that person. 

Even when being that person makes him feel like he’s standing on a deserted island, no one around for miles. When being that person means he’s all alone in the middle of the big blue ocean and drowning, gasping for air, means he’s sinking to the bottom of the sea, with anchors tied to his legs, he’ll do it. He’ll be the person they want him to be. So he takes a deep breath, unlocks the door, and decides it’s time to start swimming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter that most resembles [throam](https://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/55360.html) from which this fic takes its inspiration. we deviate quite a bit from here on out, but i do think it's necessary to give credit where it's due!
> 
> find the "official" thath tumblr [here](http://thath-fic.tumblr.com) and find me [here](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com).
> 
> as always, thank you a million to [cass](http://detectivebellamyblake.tumblr.com), [shae](http://shaeheda.tumblr.com), [ali](http://lameblake.tumblr.com), and [kara](http://mylifeiskara.tumblr.com) for all their help editing. thank you to [katie](http://bellarkatie.tumblr.com) for being my main motivation. and, of course, s/o 2 my mom for being my number 1 80s reference.
> 
> chapter three is not yet completed, buuuut i fully expect to have it up next friday in order to stay on schedule! see y'all next week!


	4. Chapter Three: the heart / the soul / control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember back in november when i said this would be up in a week? well it's been six months woops. 
> 
> this chapter does feature becho but it won't be a major aspect of the fic by any means! 
> 
> also there's some pretty heavy drug use and descriptions of early stage cocaine withdrawal. so just yknow, heads up for substance abuse. 
> 
> i think those are the only things that i really need to warn for? lemme know if y'all catch anything else that i should mention, and thanks so much for continuing to stick with me and this long winded nonsense <3

Bellamy is tired.

The days are blurring together, especially now that he’s found himself losing sleep, lying awake in his bunk as the miles fly by beneath the wheels of the bus. The rest of the band are doing their damned best to keep him away from alcohol so they don’t end up with a repeat of Miami, and it’s been getting harder to sneak it. The drugs aren’t helping either. They make his teeth clench and his legs twitch restlessly when he’s coming down, but it’s tough to come by more when he’s under such close scrutiny. He’s running on five different types of withdrawal and it’s all starting to take its toll.

The only times he’s really felt like himself were the few hours he’s spent on stage and during the hard come-down after. He’s pretty sure no one’s caught onto the fact that he’s been using, and he’s not sure they’d care if they knew. Hell, Connor’s all over the stuff.

He hates this part of himself, though, this part that depends on the drugs in order to function. He was never like this before, has always despised what people become when they’re under the influence, but after trying it for himself back in Florida, he’s hooked. 

They’re in Vegas now, and it’s the city of sin, full of drugs and gambling and hookers and booze, all the entertainment a guy could ask for. This month has been passing him by like speeding cars, the days blurring together in ways he can’t make sense of, but that’s fine, it’s alright. He’s showing up on time, not disappearing, not starting fights with his bandmates; as far as they’re concerned, he’s getting his act together. Even Chuck’s been pleased with him lately. It’d be nice if it weren’t all based on so many fucking lies.

The air in this city is hot and dry but it feels like freedom in a way he hasn’t experienced since he met that singer back in Baltimore. 

Murphy runs off to the hotel casino first thing in the morning, dragging Connor along with him. The two of them have been getting on shockingly well since Bellamy went on that bender. Their sudden camaraderie would be frustrating at any other time, but he really doesn’t have the energy to care about it right now.

Connor hasn’t looked at Bellamy since he tried to quit the band. He’s been icing him out, treating Bellamy like public enemy number one. He’s used to being at odds with his band, but not quite to this extent. Miller’s been acting weird, too, and the walking-on-eggshell routine feels a bit like nails on a chalkboard at this point. It hurts, really, and it’s just driving him further away. Murphy is the only one acting normal—arguing with him and joking around in equal measure. 

Bellamy moves through soundcheck on auto-pilot, doing his best to do his job and not mess up. It’s hard when he’s coming down, but he’ll bump again before the show later. He’ll be fine, and he’ll turn on the charm for the audience, interact with the crowd the way Chuck’s always saying he should, and things can finally go back to how they used to be, back when it was just about the music, the four of them against the world. He missed the laughter. 

He’d read an article the other day about his performance back in New Orleans. They’d gotten choice reviews, the reporter claiming there was a noticeable difference between Bellamy now compared to how he’d been in the past. According to the papers, he’s come out of his shell, really discovered himself as a performer. They’d compared the performance to Springsteen’s live shows back in ‘75, a non-stop powerhouse of frenetic energy and rock and roll. It’s a fair comparison. They still don’t have an opening act, and they played four hour shows at both the New Orleans dates, keeping their encore going until the cops had forced them to shut down. 

He’s hoping he can hit that same energy tonight in Vegas. Sure, his bandmates are tired, and he’s running low on coke, but the fans are starting to expect a certain level of excellence from them. Now that they’ve started giving it their all, they can’t exactly half-ass it. Badlands is close, so close, to being something legendary, and if they don’t keep up this momentum, they risk fading back into obscurity. Bellamy hasn’t come this far just to back down now.

They only have one short interview before the show and he’s determined to charm, plastering on an award-winning smile and hiding his trembling hands. Doesn’t seem to matter much, though. This reporter is some wide-eyed kid named Bryan who spends the entire thirty minute session making moon-eyes at Nate.

He asks about their musical influences and gets the same canned answer Bellamy’s perfected over the last three weeks. Miller makes references to John Bonham and Mitch Mitchell, talking about drummers like they’re the second, third, and fourth coming of Christ himself all at once, and Bryan hangs onto his every word like he’s speaking the gospel. Fuck, man, since when was the drummer more intriguing than the genius behind the whole operation?

It’s alright, though. He lets Miller take the lead and he leans back, letting the tension ease out of him as he realizes he’d been stressed over this for nothing. He’s more than a little relieved to note that his hands are steady as he lights a cigarette and the first inhale is heaven, the nicotine sending a soft sort of buzzing sensation to his brain in a way it typically doesn’t anymore. 

Of course, it’s as he’s reveling in the gentle headrush that Bryan decides to turn a question his way. “So, Bellamy. People are saying you’ve really hit your stride at these last few shows. Do you think you’ll bring that energy again tonight?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, mouth suddenly too dry for his liking. Thinking back to the two remaining dime bags back in his duffle on the bus, he swallows hard. “What, you think I left it in Phoenix?” He laughs. “Of course I brought it! I’m on top of the world, man.”

…

“Hey, stranger.”

He’s been studying a decidedly uninteresting rock by his feet while he smokes a spliff that he’s laced with the last of his coke when he hears her, that deep, sultry voice sounding smoky and familiar. It sends shivers down his spine and the vice-grip he’s been feeling in his chest loosens slightly.

He grins lazily at her, quirking a brow and lets smoke curl off his lips as he greets her. “Long time no see.”

She looks damn good, all long legs and too-short shorts, a plunging neckline that leaves very little to the imagination, her hair hanging long and straight, reminiscent of Brooke Shields circa 1980. Her eyes, though, are more Joni Mitchell than they are Stevie Nicks, and that tinge of danger and sex make his chest feel almost as tight as his jeans. She leans against the bus next to him and lights up a smoke, inhaling slowly. Fuck. She somehow manages to make breathing look sexy.

“Thought I wouldn’t be seeing you ‘till Denver.”

She shrugs. “I had some time to kill.”

He huffs out something like a laugh, really just a puff of breath and smoke, but it’s probably the most genuine expression of feeling he’s shown since Baltimore. “Glad you could make it, Echo.” 

His hand finds hers and their fingers intertwine. As far as groupies go, Echo’s probably his favorite. She’s been coming to shows since back in ‘81, back when they were still touring in a shitty van. Once they’d upgraded to buses, she’d started popping in more often, travelling with them for a couple weeks each tour. He’s spent so many long nights wrapped up in her. There’s something alleviating about her friendly presence now, when all his closest friends have become strangers. 

They share a comfortable silence, her thumb gently sweeping over the back of his hand every so often while he finishes his spliff. Hopefully his bandmates will trickle out of the venue soon so they can get to the hotel—he’s got a gorgeous girl standing here that he can’t fucking wait to undress.

Almost like she’s reading his mind, she rolls her neck so she’s facing him and her eyes burn with a fire that feels all-consuming and exhilarating, hinting at the sort of indecent things she wants to get into with him. His answering grin is wide and wild, and he throws the butt of his smoke to the ground, dragging her onto the bus. He’s more than a little impatient, half-desperate for her after months of withdrawal.

They stumble into the back lounge of the bus, hands already tangling in hair and tearing at clothes, mouths hungry and searching for hints of iron and rust. God, he missed her. Echo knows him in the private way only lovers can and her lips find all the places that make him shudder and fall apart, his fingers pulling moans out of her just as easy.

After, they share a cigarette, passing it back and forth between lazy kisses as her fingers ghost over the shadow of his abs. They’re not really the cuddling type, but a little bit of basking in the bliss of the come-down is always nice.

“How long are you with us?” he asks finally, breaking the silence.

She hums thoughtfully. “I’ll probably coast ‘till LA.”

“And then?”

Laughing, Echo sits up and starts pulling her clothes back on. “I do have a job, you know.”

“I thought this was your job,” Bellamy says with a wicked grin. She scoffs and lobs his shirt at his head, smacking him in the face with it.

“Partying with rock stars doesn’t exactly come with a paycheck,” she teases.

She’s got a point, he supposes, but he’s not about to admit it. He enjoys her company, wishes she could be around more, despite the fact that he knows she’s nothing but trouble. Echo’s got a bit of a reputation. Rumor has it she’s toured with bands like Def Lep and Motley Crue—all the big names—and she’s become a bit of a celebrity herself in these circles. He doesn’t have many girls he routinely returns to, but he can’t seem to help himself when it comes to her.

Just as he finishes buttoning his pants, there’s a commotion from the front of the bus, a quick rapping on the door to the back lounge moments later. 

“Hey!” Murphy’s voice called, “I hope Echo’s done head-banging your dick because I’m comin’ in!” 

He shoves his way through the door with his hand over his eyes. “Everyone decent?” he asks, peeking through his fingers.

Bellamy coughs out a laugh around a sharp exhale of smoke as Echo rolls her eyes. “Thanks for that, Murphy,” she says, but her voice is light and it’s clear she’s glad to see him after the five and a half months it’s been since they were last out west. “Always good to see you.”

Murphy’s answering grin shows off all his teeth, teasing and cheeky. “Ain’t it a pleasure?” He tilts his head towards the door and says, “We’re all hanging out, catching up a bit. You two care to join?” 

Echo smirks and grabs Bellamy’s hand, dragging him out into the front lounge. There’s girls there, laughing and drinking, one of them clearly flying high on something, and this is where Bellamy feels most at home these days. It’s easy like this, his own personal party where he may be the star of the show, but his band mates are having their own fun as well, for once not full of resentment. 

Connor passes him a bottle of whiskey and he takes a big swig, offering it to Echo as she settles into his lap. A girl Bellamy dimly remembers from their last tour is cuddling up to Murphy. He seems to be soaking up the attention, but also slightly uncomfortable, almost as though he doesn’t want to fuck this groupie. He’s not exactly the type to turn down a hot girl. Bellamy will have to question him about it later, but for now, Echo’s pressing her lips to his and blowing smoke in his mouth. He’s buzzed already, but a little more on top never hurt anyone. 

The joint hits hard after the spliff and the booze and he feels lightheaded for a minute. He keeps clenching his teeth and his hands refuse to still. He grabs at Echo’s thighs, her waist, until she takes notice. She turns to him with a quirked brow and leans in close, asks softly, “Everything alright?”

He doesn’t trust his voice to come out steady so he just nods and gives her a tight-lipped smile then pulls hard on the whiskey once more. It’s not until the night goes fuzzy at the edges that he feels the need to excuse himself and his bottle, firmly shutting the door to the back lounge behind him. The couch is less than comfortable and it still smells like sex, but his head is pounding too hard to be surrounded by people right now and the solitude is like a cool balm on a sunburn, letting him breathe easy for a moment. 

He misses long nights on the bus with his band, but when he actually has them all together, kicking back and relaxing, he feels suffocated. These people aren’t his friends, these warped versions of themselves, and he knows he’s changed, too. The world _craves_ the version of him they see on stage, though, and that’s the only version that matters.

When he hears a soft knock, he half expects the door to slide open and reveal Miller coming to check up on him. He’s been freaking out more often as the tour goes on, locking himself in bathroom stalls and hiding out in hotel rooms, alternating between hyperventilating and shaking every time he comes down from his highs. It’s not Miller who comes in to check on him, though, but Murphy. It comes as a bit of a surprise, considering they haven’t had much in the way of heart to hearts lately. They’ve been perfectly cordial to each other, but half the time Bellamy walks into a room Murphy’s in, the guy’ll find he suddenly has somewhere else he needs to be. 

“Hey, man,” Murphy says, flopping onto the couch an arm’s length away and staring resolutely at the wall. The lack of scrutiny loosens the vice-like grip on Bellamy’s chest. Sitting like this, in someone else’s presence, and being able to drop the mask of happy-confident-functional that he’s cultivated, is a relief.

He rolls his neck to stare at the side of Murphy’s face. “Hey, Murph.”

Murphy lets his eyes slip closed and breathes out slowly through his mouth. When his eyes flick open again, there’s a hard set to his jaw and his eyebrows are drawn down. “What’s going on, Bell?” Bellamy barely manages to croak out a confused scoff when he’s cut off. “Don’t give me any bullshit excuses, I know something’s up. We got our own private party going. Your girl’s here, for fuck’s sake, and here you are, hiding your ugly mug like a kicked dog. So be straight with me, man,” he says, turning to Bellamy, grim determination etched into the lines of his forehead, his eyes flicking back and forth between Bellamy’s like he’s trying to see straight into his brain, “What the fuck is going on with you?”

Bellamy breaks eye contact first. He can’t keep his composure in the face of Murphy’s piercing stare. His hands are maddeningly still in his lap and hits him: the keyed-up energy that he’s so used to feeling is just...gone. He let himself sink into the person everyone wants him to be and he just doesn’t have much fight left in him anymore. His palms are dry because there’s nothing to sweat out aside from the drugs and he’s sure his body is clinging to those chemicals with every stubborn cell he has.

“Nothing’s going on,” he says, a beat too late. “I’m just trying to get through this leg of the tour. I’ll be fine.”

“Implying you’re not fine now.” 

Bellamy clenches his jaw and bites back what surely would’ve been a too-harsh response. He takes a deep breath, letting it out in a rush and spilling out, “I’m just fucking tired. Feels like I’m running on fumes.” He can practically taste the bitterness he’s exuding. 

Murphy leans back slowly, turning his attention back to the wall. Several minutes pass in silence, Bellamy’s words hanging in the air as they keep their eyes off each other, a chasm growing between them that starts to grow intimidating before Murphy finally bridges it.

“So.” Bellamy is glad he doesn’t have to be the one to break the silence. Or he was, until Murphy follows up with, “How long you been using, Blake?”

Just like that, Bellamy feels his lungs seize in his chest, his shoulders practically drawing up all the way to his ears as every muscle in his body tenses. “What.” He can’t even infuse the question into his tone, so taken aback is he by Murphy’s newfound observation skills.

“Connor’s too far up his own ass to notice, and Miller doesn’t want to believe it.” Bellamy finds himself once again the subject of Murphy’s analysis. “But I see it. You’re different. You got all this manic energy on stage every night, you’ve never been like that before.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends a bit and gritting his teeth. “And afterwards, fuck. After every set you have this wicked come down. 

“I know you’re using. So when did it start? Louisiana? Miami? Before then?”

Bellamy’s never wanted to beat someone’s teeth in more than he does right now. What fucking business is it of Murphy’s if Bellamy needs a little help getting by? Every move he makes is analyzed ten ways to Sunday and he’s finally got a _healthy_ way of dealing with it. He’s not drowning his liver in booze anymore, and it’s not like he’s fucking around with pain pills or smack. The bursts of clarity he gets from a rail is basically the same thing as downing a shot of espresso except he doesn’t have to burn his tongue on steaming hot coffee.

His hands curl tight around his thighs, hard enough he wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises in the morning, as he snaps out, “What does it matter?” He meets Murphy’s eyes head-on. “Huh? I’m finally over my spazzy stage-fright bullshit. We played a _triple_ encore in Dallas.” God, he’s spitting mad and it’s like everything he’s saying is just bouncing off Murphy.

“This is what we used to _dream_ about, Murph, or did you forget that? We are positively deadly these days. Who gives a shit that I’m bumping? Who fucking cares! Get real, man, I’m happening right now and everyone sees it but you. That’s why Miller and Connor got nothing to say to me.” He puffs out his chest and pushes to his feet. “I don’t know what your damage is, but I don’t dig you bagging me like this.”

“Jesus, you sound like such a poser right now! Do you even hear yourself?”

“Oh, I’m so sure,” Bellamy spits back, accompanied by an exaggerated eye roll. “I don’t need this. Get bent.” 

He shoulders out of the back lounge and swings up into his bunk. He’s out of coke, his manager won’t let him touch liquor for the foreseeable future, and he’s in no mood for mindless sex, no matter how good Echo is at it. He punches his pillow hard, once, twice, three times, before settling in with a huff and staring up at the low ceiling of his bunk. 

His muscles are cramping and there’s an uncomfortable pounding his head that he can’t shake. His thoughts are racing, catching every fifth or sixth word from his bandmates and their groupies in the front lounge. 

He wants the noise to stop, wants the bus to stop, wants the _world_ to stop for five goddamn minutes but everything just keeps happening all the time and he can’t see a way out of it. He doesn’t want to be Bellamy-fucking-Blake, stuck in Vegas traffic on the way to a mad expensive hotel where he’s sure to be swarmed by stalker fans and over-eager hotel guests who can’t keep the stars out of their eyes.

Christ, he just wants to be _Bellamy_. 

He wants someone to look at him and listen to the shit he has to say because they actually care and not because they’re waiting for him to spew out something profound like the larger-than-life musician he is. He’s embraced it, really, he has. This is the life he’s wanted since the first time he picked up a guitar. This is what he fucking wanted. 

Somehow, that doesn’t make it any easier.

…

The second Vegas show is rougher than the first by a mile. Bellamy’s pretty sure the only thing keeping his feet on the ground at this point are the cigarettes Echo tucked into his pocket before he tripped his way onto the stage, but he still has to stumble his way through the set sober and it’s rough—especially so considering it’s a Friday night and he’s pretty sure the repurposed baseball stadium they’re playing is over-capacity.

He’s off his rhythm and it’s throwing off his bandmates, too. He fucks up the bridge on ‘Last Chance’ and Miller fumbles through his drum solo. When Monty switches out his Les Paul for his tuned-down Fender Strat, he fumbles through his chords, fingers finding their positions for standard tuning rather than the hard-edged drop B he’s meant to be picking out. The more he messes up the more in his head he gets, until he’s mumbling into the microphone and all but tripping over the lines of cables under his feet. 

The energy of the crowd is no less wild than it’s been any other night, but he can feel the tension in the music. The band is keyed up and even the techs seem to be off balance. 

It happens, Bellamy knows that, everyone has their bad nights. This, though. It’s the first of over twenty shows that feels like a disaster. 

At least they end on a good note, slamming their way through ‘Drifter,’ their first major hit. Bellamy is so fucking sick of that song, having played it at every single show since ‘82, but thankfully he’s got it down to a science. He could play that song in his sleep. Hell, he may as well have considering the amount of times he’s played it while black-out drunk. 

They leave the stage to thunderous applause and the strain finally comes to a head, the band all yelling over each other. 

“What the fuck, Murph—”

“-setlist right in front of you! How could you not—”

“-act like goddamn professionals for once!”

“-all Blake’s fault, anyway—”

“-hell did I do? I’m not the one who—”

“Can’t fucking believe you would—”

“-wrong fucking guitar—”

“How hard is it to—”

“Shut up, all of you!” Pike screams, his booming voice cutting through the chaos of their flaring tempers. They’re all fuming, breathing heavy, each more pissed than the last, but their manager won’t be cowed. “Pull your shit together! That was a piss poor excuse of a show from _all_ of you, and we can talk about whose fault that was later.” Murphy’s glare burns a hole in the side of Bellamy’s face, but he grits his teeth and refuses to return the look. “You assholes still have a roaring crowd and an encore and a half to play, so you’d better do your damned best to make up for that trainwreck or I’ll fire all your asses.”

It’s an empty threat, but at least it gets them to check their yelling and limit themselves to angry grumbling. The real blow-out will happen once they get back to the bus. Bellamy faces the guitar rack and focuses on breathing, eyes closed, _in, two, three. Hold. Hold. Out, two, three_. Behind his eyelids, he sees skinny wrists and long brown hair, too-wide eyes looking at him with the hero worship born from youth and sticky summers, co-dependence and adoration and—

His eyes fly open and he’s breathing harder, but his heart beats a bit steadier. How long has it been since thoughts of her could calm him down? Too long, probably. 

He’s supposed to close out with the black Gibson, but that cherry red Les Paul is calling out to him, fingers itching to pluck out ‘4th of July, Asbury Park,’ the first song he ever learned because of how she scratched up the record after repeating it one too many times. He lets his fingers drift over its body, up its neck, something like a static shock running up his arm and jolting a long-dead thing in his chest back to life. 

“Monty,” he calls out, distracted, “Can you tune this up for me? Standard?” The tech rushes up and starts tuning by ear without question.

“Bell?” Miller asks right in his ear, “What’s going on?”

“I want to do a cover.”

“For the encore?”

“Yeah. Trust me.” He feels a spark light him up from the inside out and he knows, he _knows_, that if anyone can see it, it’s Miller.

“Alright, man. All you.” 

Somewhere behind him, Bellamy hears Miller filling in his bandmates on the change of plans. Connor’s complaining almost instantly, but Miller shuts him up fast. “We’ll still do our big finish. Give him this, dude.”

Monty hands him the guitar and he gives a few experimental strums. Fuck. Just like it used to sound. The crowd is getting louder, antsy now, but the calm that’s enveloped him isn’t going anywhere yet. He can do this.

Chuck gives him the all-clear and Bellamy nods, stepping out to start the encore alone.

The lights come up on the whole stage and he feels far too lit-up and laid bare for a moment as the thousands of faceless fans scream his name at him. But he’s calm. This is his moment.

“Hey, guys,” he says into the microphone, keeping his voice close and conversational. Right now, he’s talking to each and every one of them, like he’s alone in a thousand rooms at once with every kid in this crowd. “Hope you don’t mind that I’m changing things up a bit, but I wanted to play this song for y’all.” 

He strums the opening chords, sparing a glance to side-stage where Miller’s beaming and even Murphy looks halfway to proud of him. “This is the first song I ever learned to play,” he tells the crowd, “but it’s been a while. Forgive me if I’m a bit rusty.” He smiles and closes his eyes, letting the music wash over him. “This one goes out to the Red Queen.”

The roar is so deafening he doesn’t even hear himself launch into the most honest performance he’s given this whole damned year, but these words are engraved in his fucking bones, “_Sandy, the fireworks are hailing over Little Eden tonight_...”

It’s cleansing, is what it is. It feels pure and strong in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time, and when his band comes out to close up the show, he feels like the hero he always wanted to be. It’s a damn good feeling.

...

The drive to LA is short and far too long, with Echo’s body curled around his in the back lounge, passing laced joints back and forth, breathing smoke into each other’s mouths. Her hair is silky smooth wrapped around his guitar-callused fingertips and her skin is so smooth under his palms that he worries his rough edges will leave her with road burn, permanently scarring her the way he does everything else.

“I haven’t seen her in almost five years,” he whispers, afraid to break the delicate smoke-screen silence that’s wrapped its way around them.

She pulls back just enough to fix hazy brown eyes on him, “Seen who?”

Bellamy laughs, but nothing’s funny. One of Echo’s hands strokes down the side of his face, twisting a lock of greasy hair away from his eyes and he suddenly feels too sober for this conversation. He takes a long pull of the joint and holds in the smoke, voice tight when he chokes out, “The Red Queen.” Exhale. Breathe. “My sister.”

Echo sits up straight and the cloud of pot-tobacco-coke high fades too fast from her eyes like she hasn’t inhaled a single puff. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“I don’t, really,” and the bitterness burns worse than the smoke. “Not anymore, anyway.”

“Oh, Bellamy…” 

He can’t handle the pity he sees when he can finally bring himself to meet her eyes, so he stubs out the joint and pulls her onto his lap instead. “Kiss me.” 

She hesitates for a second, but she’s always been able to read him just a little too well. Whatever she finds in his eyes must convince her because she drops the subject and presses her lips to his, a slick slide of silent promises and forgiveness he doesn’t deserve. He tangles his hand up in her hair and pulls her head back to nip and suck at her neck, marking up the tanned line of her throat while she gasps out his name.

Her nails scratch down his bare chest, scoring long, red lines into his skin. Every point of contact is an electric shock straight to the heart, he’s shaking under her touch, and when she pulls him out of his jeans and sinks down onto him, his eyes roll back under the pleasure of it. 

His spine goes from rigid and tight to liquid mercury as her hips twist and sway against him. The world narrows down to nothing outside the spots where their skin touches and for a second he can put all his old regrets aside. Right now, nothing should matter outside the two of them, so if, when he squeezes his eyes tight as soon as he hits the peak, he sees piercing blue eyes and an upturned nose, well, that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

Echo shifts off him, breathless herself, and reaches across his heaving chest to snatch up the joint and relight it. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” she tells him, tone carefully casual in a way that grates unpleasantly against his skin, “but you should.” 

He tugs his pants back up and pulls his shirt on quickly. The air feels too thick to breathe and he pushes to his feet, head spinning. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He pulls the door open and stumbles his way out into the front lounge, studiously ignoring the sounds of sex coming from Connor’s bunk. He feels bad for whatever sorry chick felt shitty enough about herself to fall into bed with that asshole.

Murphy’s on the couch with a guitar, strumming out chord progressions, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. The girl curled around him has intricate braids woven into her hair and a glass of whiskey dangling in her hands. Bellamy doesn’t hesitate to snatch it away from her. 

“I was drinking that,” she says harshly and Murphy looks up through lidded eyes.

“You’re not supposed to be drinking.” 

Bellamy shrugs. “Not supposed to be doing a lot of things.” 

The girl shoots him a dirty look as she gets up to fix herself another drink. “Hey, ‘Tari, pour me one, too, yeah?” Murphy asks without looking. He studies Bellamy, probably taking notice of his mussed up hair and red-rimmed eyes. “That was some stunt you pulled tonight.” 

Bellamy sips at his drink, thinking through his response. “Felt good, though.” 

“Been awhile since you played that one.” His fingers start plucking out the notes to ‘4th of July,’ and Bellamy feels a lazy smile spread across his face. 

“Five years, now.” 

Murphy lets out a low whistle and puffs on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Where’s she shacking up these days, anyway?” 

“Dunno,” Bellamy says, shaking his head. “Last I spoke to her, it was Chicago, but...who knows, man.” His throat feels tight and his eyes burn. It’s always hard to think about her, has been for nigh on a decade now, but the ache in his chest is more of a dull throbbing, beating in time with his heart, than it is a stinging bite. 

“You never did tell me what all went down between you two,” Murphy says as he takes a tumbler from his girl. He swirls the ice around the glass and stares down at the amber colored liquid. “I know Miller knows most of it, but he ain’t talking.” 

Bellamy nods, brow furrowing, before downing the rest of his drink. “I went one way,” and it feels like he’s talking through rocks with how rough his voice sounds, “and she went the other. Not much to it.” He doesn’t need to put words to the guilt sitting heavy in his gut for Murphy to hear it, loud and clear. Thankfully, he doesn’t mention it, just gives Bellamy a tight smile and drops the subject. 

“How are things with Echo?” he asks instead and Bellamy chuckles low, rolling his eyes. “What? You gonna make an honest woman of her or what, Blake?”

“Stuff it, Murph, you know it’s not like that with her.”

The girl scoffs and Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her. She laughs as she lights a smoke. “Please, she’s a chick. Of course it’s like that.” 

Murphy smirks and pulls her close to his side with an arm around her shoulder. Bellamy narrows his eyes, “Sorry, what’s your name again?”

“Ontari,” she tells him, voice hard.

“Oh, that’s right,” he replies, “See, I only ask because you look like every groupie I’ve ever met, and you and your little fucking opinions are so goddamned inconsequential to me that I tune you out the second you open your airhead mouth.” She gapes at him, speechless.

“Are you gonna let him talk to me like that?” she asks Murphy. He looks almost offended on her behalf, but Bellamy knows him too well, can see the twinkle of mirth dancing in the line of his jaw. 

Murphy sips his drink and shrugs, “Sorry, babes, I really don’t control what comes out of his mouth.” 

For a second it’s almost like she can’t decide which one of them to be pissed at. Bellamy hides his laughter behind a cough and his hand, deliberately looking anywhere but at her. Ontari scoffs and stands. “Whatever, assholes.” She slugs back the rest of her drink and slams her glass down on the counter, then stomps off to the back lounge. 

It’s not till the door slams shut and he and Murphy make eye contact that they finally dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

Between bouts of laughter, Murphy gasps out, “You didn’t...even…know her fucking name!” Bellamy slaps a hand down on his leg, coughing through his laughing fit. The world is pleasant and bright and happy and Bellamy feels lighter than air in the best way.

He reaches to refill his glass and ignores the way Murphy’s laughter quiets. It’s been days since he’s had a drink, he can handle a little bit. The whiskey is sharp and sweet, only the faintest hint of a burn, and it’s _good_. 

“Seriously, though,” Murphy says, sipping his own drink, “you think Echo might stick around this time?”

Bellamy sighs. “Nah, man. She’s got her life and I’ve got mine. I don’t need a chick holding me back.”

The corners of Murphy’s mouth go tight in a strange sort of frown as he nods along in a quiet sort of commiseration. “Could be nice, though, y’know? Having someone to go home to.”

“You going soft on me, Murph?” 

He laughs again, darker and more quiet. “No, no, just…” He stares into the middle distance for a long minute, then scrunches up his nose and smiles wide. “Can’t party forever, I guess.”

Bellamy scoffs. Yeah, right. What’s life at this point without the party? There’s nothing left for him outside this, nothing left for any of them as far as he’s concerned. They made this bed, it’s time to fucking lie in it. 

“What? You never wanna settle down?”

“You actually want to?”

Murphy meets his eyes and there’s a second where it’s like looking in a mirror. The bone-deep weariness that Bellamy’s grown so used to seeing in himself is reflected there on his friend’s face and it’s baffling to realize he has absolutely no clue how or when it got there. “Yeah,” he says, and uses the butt of his lit cigarette to light up another, “Yeah, I think I do.”

...

It’s still dark out when they finally step off the bus in Los Angeles. The air is cool enough against Bellamy’s skin that he wishes he’d grabbed a jacket, so different from the muggy heat of the east coast.

The back of the Hollywood Bowl looks almost menacing in the dark, barely illuminated in the moonlight, but it fills him with a sense of awe, knowing they’ll be playing this legendary fucking venue that’s seen the likes of The Beatles and The Stones and The Doors, _The fucking Doors_, acts Badlands can only hope to emulate and he hopes they do this stage justice.

Before the tour, they’d talked a lot about recording a live album here—what would’ve been their first—but they’d argued too much over it so nothing had come of the idea. Bellamy’s still hoping they’ll be able to get in some sort of live recording during this tour, but as the days fly by, that’s starting to feel less likely. 

It’s hard to believe they’re already almost a full month into tour, twenty-two shows down and officially less than forty to go. As he watches the techs start unloading their gear, he realizes that it all almost feels mundane at this point. This is his life now.

He turns away from the looming shape of the Bowl and pulls out a cigarette. When he tries to light it, he can’t get his lighter to spark up. The more times he clicks it, the harder his hands shake until he finally curses and throws it to the ground in frustration, hard enough that the metal lip of it pops off. He runs a shaky hand through his hair just as Echo comes up offering an already flickering lighter that Bellamy’s grateful for. “Thanks,” he mutters, just loud enough to be heard and she gives him a small, private smile that just barely reaches her eyes.

“I’ve got some friends in town,” she tells him softly and he blinks at the non-sequitur. 

“Good for you?”

She huffs and it falls just short of sounding like a laugh. “I meant, I’ve got some _friends_ in town,” She pumps her eyebrows for good measure, “if you’re in need of a hook-up.” And. Oh. 

The thing is, he wants to turn down the offer. Well, he wants to want to turn down her offer, but after last night’s sober shitshow, he’s not sure he can make it through three nights in LA without a little help. It’s not that he enjoys relying on the blow to keep him on his game, but he’s not willing to risk the negative reviews that are bound to roll in if he has to go through any sort of actual withdrawal. 

So, he nods. Says, “Yeah, that’d be great.” And she smiles wide and nods and tells him she’ll hook him up and it really is that fucking easy. He pulls hard on his cigarette and flicks ash off the end and tries his damned best to act like he’s just fine with the way his life is turning out. Following in his sister’s footsteps. Perfect.

The day passes in a blur, and when Echo‘s friend shows up, Bellamy doesn’t pause long enough to remember the guy’s name, just hands over some cash, slips the dime bags in his back pocket, and slinks away to get high before the show. 

If his band notices his improved, if slightly too-high-strung, performance ability, they don’t mention it. 

It’s not until the day after Echo takes off and he’s lazing by the hotel pool with a laced joint hanging from his fingertips that someone finally says something. 

“Quit moping, Blake, it’s bad for business.”

He looks up at his manager through his heavily tinted sunglasses and scratches at the stubble coming in on his cheeks, puffing lazily at his smoke. Pike’s holding two tumblers that look potentially alcoholic and Bellamy perks up. “One of those for me?”

“Only if you’ll tell me what crawled up your ass.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” Pike says, “You’ve been acting like a sad sack since your girl ran off and it’s my job to fix it.”

“You wanna fix it, you’ll give me that drink.” He doesn’t really need it, if he’s being honest with himself, not with the way the drugs are floating around in his skull, but it’s the principle of the thing. Chuck hasn’t let him have a drink in almost exactly two weeks now, going as far as to clear out the mini bar in his hotel room, and booze has always been his drug of choice. 

Chuck sighs, long and loud, but hands over the drink. Bellamy raises an eyebrow and sips at it slowly. It’s vodka, fuck, and it’s _good_, something top fucking shelf, and he’s tempted to drain the whole thing at once, but he’s not sure if Pike’ll let him have any more, so he opts to savor it instead, sipping at it again and holding it on his tongue until the flavor’s invaded all his senses and his mouth feels pleasantly warm in its wake. 

“Look, Bellamy,” Pike says, and it’s never good when he starts a sentence like that, but, “you’re my star, okay?” And shit, Bellamy wasn’t expecting _that_. Chuck usually refuses to acknowledge that Bellamy’s the real star of the show, the one the kids are really coming to see—usually acts like the band is all some big group effort, as if he doesn’t fucking know that without Bellamy there wouldn’t _be_ a band. “I can’t have you off your game.”

“I’m not off my game, Chuck. I’m fucking better than ever.” He pulls hard at the joint, the nice buzz from the coke only serving to negate his point—not that he’ll ever admit to that.

“No, kid, you’re not.” Bellamy blinks. Chuck lights a cigarette and shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “Sometimes you are, but other times...look, none of us want a repeat of Miami, right?” Of course that’s what this is about. Fucking Miami. “It’s my job to keep that from happening. You seemed to be doing better when the chick was around, so if it’s the chick you want, then I’ll make it happen.”

“Wait, what?” 

“I can get her back here in a couple hours, she can come with us on tour if that’s what you want—”

Bellamy laughs at that, loud and hard enough that he almost chokes on it. He swipes a hand over his face and rolls his eyes, “That’s about the last thing I want, man.”

“Then what do you want, Blake? ‘Cause I’m wracking my brain tryna figure out what to do about your diva bullshit, and I’m running out of ideas.” Bellamy sips pointedly at his drink before puffing on his smoke again. “Letting you drink again isn’t gonna solve this, kid. We’ve got five near sold-out shows at the Garden starting _tomorrow_ and I ain’t about to let whatever stick lodged itself up your ass fuck that up for this band.”

Shit. Bellamy had been so focused on playing Hollywood that he’d forgotten they’re meant to be on a plane to New York tomorrow. Kicking off the second leg with almost a week at Madison Square Garden seemed like a great idea a few months ago when Chuck was booking this tour, but now that it’s actually about to happen, it seems like the dumbest thing he’s ever agreed to. 

Madison Square _fucking_ Garden, twenty thousand people, five nights in a row, and, idiots that they are, they decided to try and pull it off without a goddamned opening act. He’s not so sure he’ll be able to pull it off. Even all the blow in the world wouldn’t be enough to satisfy critics for five nights straight, what the fuck was he _thinking_ agreeing to something this collossally stupid?

He chugs the rest of his vodka, fuck savoring that shit. Chuck holds out the other glass and Bellamy’s actually frozen for a second. “What…”

“You didn’t think this was for me, right? It’s ten in the morning.” Christ, Bellamy knew Chuck was good for something. He grabs the drink and guzzles down half of it in one sip. “Are you gonna tell me what you need now, or what?”

He stares down at the end of his joint, ash gathering at the tip as it burns down to his fingertips. All it would take is the slightest touch for that ash to go billowing off with the breeze, dissipating into dust. He was thinking about asking Chuck for more blow, maybe, or for a proper bed in the back lounge, giving him his own space on the fucking bus, but...he’s staring at the ashes of the drugs that are now swirling through his system and he can’t help but feel like he’s also one light tap away from dissolving into the wind. He needs something of substance to hold him together, something bigger and better than booze or bimbos or blow, and maybe Chuck was onto something when he suggested bringing Echo back around, but…

“There’s this band,” he says slowly, testing out each word in his head before he lets them fall off his tongue. This might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, he can’t get sloppy here. “I saw them with Murphy...back in Baltimore.” Chuck furrows his brow and narrows his eyes, but doesn’t interrupt. Bellamy’s grateful for it; he’s not sure he’d be able to start again. “They were good,” he says, “Really good.”

He pulls on the joint one last time before stubbing it out on the bottom of his shoe and sips his drink to wash the taste out of his mouth. When he blinks, he sees a flash of blue eyes and blonde hair behind his eyelids. Fuck, is he really about to do this? 

“I want them to open for us in New York.”

Well. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep telling myself i'll go through and explain what all the references are to but i'm honestly just.......lazy as hell. here's a massive shout-out to everyone who continues to make this fic possible: my editors/cheerleaders [cass](http://animmortalist.tumblr.com), [shae](http://shaeheda.tumblr.com), [sarah](http://swainlake.tumblr.com), my biggest fan [katie](http://bellarkatie.tumblr.com), my mom for constant 80s authenticity verification, and [throam](https://beggarsnotes.livejournal.com/55360.html) which inspired this fic to be written.
> 
> find the "official" thath tumblr [here](http://thath-fic.tumblr.com) and find me [here](http://octaviadblake.tumblr.com).
> 
> honestly, no promises on when the next chapter will be ready, but clarke will be back and in a big way meaning i'm wayyyyy more inspired than i was going into this behemoth of a filler chapter!


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